Mummy Lestrade
by MrTails
Summary: DI Lestrade has found himself in possession of two little boys. Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

Mummy Lestrade

Part One

"The serial killer has struck again." Oh god. Greg didn't think the day could get any worse. The month actually, since this who serial killer thing started. At first, it had seemed innocent enough. A mugging gone wrong, then there were more in a fashion so similar they could only be connected. Then it got worse. Then it wasn't just dirt bags trying to make a buck, then it was innocent people dying just because he could.

"There's good news and bad news." Donavon said as if it would make his day a little better.

"The good news." Lestrade flinched regardless. 'Good' news was never really good news. It was just news that was slightly better than everything else that was happening.

"There were two witnesses." He sat up a little. That was good news. Perhaps he'd finally caught a break. It wasn't without its suspicions, though.

"And the bad news?"

"They're like fifteen."

"I'm five." The little curly headed child at her leg stated, an obvious insult to her intelligence.

"I'm seven." The second added in. Sally glanced down at them, who had followed her after she had clearly told them to stay put (for the third time), but otherwise ignored them.

"They claim they saw the murder."

"We did see the murder." The older boy insisted, his annoyance with the woman almost tangible. Lestrade dropped his head into his hand. This couldn't be happening.

"Yeah. Okay." He responded in near hysteria. "Things can't get any worse. Sit down, boys." Sally frowned, but didn't stop the two brothers from hurrying into the room. They both comfortable fit in one chair, and seem to prefer to sit in one chair. The older one turns his head back to stare down Donavon. To be honest, Lestrade didn't blame him. When she finally left, closing the door behind her, the two boys watch DI Lestrade expectantly.

"Well?" Greg scoffed. Both boys frowned.

"You're not a happy man, are you?" The little one said.

"Married, ten plus years," His brother continued.

"On a nicotine patch,"

"Who are you?" Greg demanded a little louder and caused both boys to reel back a little. Whoever had put them up to this, it wasn't funny.

"I'm Mycroft and this is my brother Sherlock."

"S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K." Sherlock spelled out more than pleased in himself. Mycroft was teaching him to spell everything.

"Those are your names?" The older man questioned with disbelief. Mycroft stared at him in a look Lestrade had seen many times before. The brat thought he was better than him!

"Obviously, Detective."

"Obviously." Sherlock mimicked in a way that wasn't exactly mimicking. Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head back as if to hold back a nose bleed or more likely to prevent any more anger to flood out of his face. They were just kids, he had to remind himself, young kids that thought they knew things they didn't.

"Okay," He said again. "Mycroft, Sherlock," Still with obvious disbelief. "Tell me exactly what you saw." Lestrade could only hope he could make something with it.

"We didn't see his face," Mycroft began. "He was six feet and one and half inches, not counting his shoes of course."

"He had black hair, like off black, though. Not gray."

"Asphalt."

"A-S-P-H-A-L-T." Sherlock spelled again. "His hair was medium length. Just past his neck and straight."

"He's not married. Definitely a man, if you hadn't realized already. Approximately one hundred and ninety six pounds."

"And he smelled like Hibiscus. H-I-B-I-S-C-U-S. And had pollen on his shoulder."

"He'd have to have gone through the flower shop. Hibiscus don't grow wild around here and I saw the lady tending to them when we went looking for Mummy's present."

"Where is you 'mummy'?" Lestrade, though well impressed by the boys' memory, wasn't sure exactly how much he could believe. Much of it sounded as if they were simply making things up. Most likely for attention.

"Mummy is-" Mycroft began, but didn't seem to have the words for it.

"Mummy isn't feeling well." Sherlock frowned.

"Back to the man. If you go to the flower shop, you can ask the woman working there what she saw? I doubt it was much."

"He probably ducked in only for a moment and he wouldn't have shown his face."

"There was a camera in the alley, but he never looked up, so I don't think you'll get a good view of his face." The older man was having a hard time keeping track of which one was speaking, though the older brother had more seniority and while Lestrade wasn't sure if he remembered more or simply had a better vocabulary, they both seemed set on what they were saying.

"So if I check this camera, I'm going to see a six foot man murder someone?"

"Six foot one and half and yes. Your victim was brutally stabbed,"

"B-R-U-T-A-L-L-Y."

"Seven times. His sternum is broken, three ribs, and both lungs are collapsed." Mycroft stated plainly. His expression dared the detective to tell him he was wrong.

"C-O-L-L-A-P-S-E-D. He stayed alive about long enough to suffer through suffocating on his own blood, though I think the serial killer didn't do it on purpose. He didn't seem very smart."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said swiftly and sharply. That was a little bit creepy. Lestrade leaned over his desk a little and examined the two children up close. When neither of them became unnerved, he decided it was worth a shot.

"Donavon. Get me the video feed from,"

"Baker Street. South side. Two cameras in. I think it was 12346-"

"123461229-b." Sherlock smiled, looking toward the older man for a sign that he'd done well. The woman seemed to be a little put off by the children but with a nod from the DI, she went off. Sherlock frowned, but Mycroft gave his curly locks a small stroke and he returned to playing with the edge of his coat.

"How do you boys remember all of this? Or know all of this, actually." Greg questioned, trying to be a little more gentler but finding it a tad hard. He was not being intimidated by children! Sherlock looked at him in confusion.

"I don't understand." Didn't everyone see? Surely adults saw more than him.

"There is no how." Mycroft huffed. Everyone always wanted to 'how'. Why did there have to be a 'how'. Not everything had a how! Mycroft knew that best.

"We just do." To see everything and remember the vitals was simply natural in them. Mycroft had once been worried that his brother would be like everyone else and he wouldn't be able to teach and play with him. He was more than relieved to be able to teach him absolutely everything.

"Does your Mummy know you do this?" He made it sound like 'this' was a bad thing. Both brothers frowned again.

"Like I said, Mummy is very sick. It's best to leave her be." Mycroft repeated himself. He was use to repeating himself.

"How sick is she?"

"Lestrade. You have to come look at this." Sally insisted. Lestrade eyed the boys once more before leaving them alone in his office.

"The exact camera that the little freak said."

"Sally," Greg scolded.

"I'm just saying, it's a little weird. Look. This is from around the time of the murder." Sure enough, in the very same alley, a hooded man went walking after their victim.

"Pay attention, Sherlock." Mycroft drew his brother's attention away from the buttons he was enjoying so much. The young boy glanced to him curiously.

"What do you see?"

"Uh." Green grey eyes darted about the office for a moment. "His wife's doing naught things behind his back with the neighbor and the gym trainer. He knows about the neighbor, not the trainer."

"Good. How did you get there?"

"His planner's open. She goes to the gym every day, but from her picture, which was taken recently because the tree is in bloom and Lestrade still has the petals on the bottoms of his show, she's not losing any weight. It could be because she's still eating bad, but there's health food in his drawer that he keeps taking to work and pretending to eat. A lot of them."

"And the neighbor?"

"He has numbers written down, they're all times. Not work times and they're random. Red and black. He's keeping track of how many times his wife calls. And, um," Mycroft patiently waited for him to continue.

"Oh! There's long periods of blank spaces. He's put a dash next to the times he's called and she didn't answer. Did I get it?"

"Almost. He hasn't been calling. A man won't call his wife that often nor vice versa. It's a nanny cam. The user name and password is on his computer, you can see the reflection of it in the clock. He checks the tapes when he's not busy and marks down when his wife passes by. Considering the frequency of the numbers, it's most likely in the hall. Three way hall. The red numbers are when she leaves home and he doesn't know where she's going. The checks are when she calls about it later."

"So it's not the neighbor?"

"You were right. It's the neighbor. He has his name and number written down, as well as his address and car plates. He's suspicious, but won't confront either of them about it."

"But why is it the neighbor?" Sherlock questioned. Mycroft picked up the picture sitting on the desk top.

"That's Detective Inspector Lestrade." He pointed to the man wrapped around his wife and his younger brother nodded.

"That's his neighbor." He pointed to the reflection in the house window of the younger, obviously more muscular man taking the picture for them.

"I don't understand."

"It's okay, Sherlock. Grownups are strange."

"Hey. Put that down." Lestrade snatched up the photo quickly and returned it to where it was. He seated himself back behind his desk though look thoroughly unhappy about it.

"That was the exact camera." He stated with his evident doubt.

"They write the numbers on the side. I believe they're for tourist and it just happened to be in the right spot." Mycroft explained. The man didn't know very many things, it seemed. The two little boys were use to explaining things to adults.

"I know what it's for." The older man snapped. Both boys clammed up instantly.

"We're going to go to this flower shop and see what they have to say and then I'm taking you straight home." Greg explained and received blank stares of discontent.

"Come on." Neither boy budged. Lestrade had never been particularly good with kids. "You get to ride in a police car." He tried to bribe, but their expressions simply turned sour.

"Ice cream?" He continued. Sherlock seemed to falter for a moment, but one glance to his brother and he continued to mimic the older boy. Alright. This was getting ridiculous. Lestrade moved the chair and leaned down to be at the boy's height.

"I will carry you out of here."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Donavon. Come on." Lestrade instructed as he walked past her desk, one child tucked under each arm. Neither of them were throwing much of a fit but he could almost hear them thinking. They were too smart for their own good. Mycroft looked particularly annoyed. He was too old to be carried like this.

"Uh. Where are we going?"

"Baker Street." Lestrade opened the door with his back and trudged into the parking lot. Sally followed behind him.

"Open the door." He demanded and the woman picked up his steps to open the back seat door. He deposited both kids into the back.

"Put your seat belts on." Mycroft 'hrmped', crossing his arms over his chest indignantly and Sherlock did the same. Lestrade glared at the pair before leaning into the back and putting the seat belts on for them. He slammed the door closed.

"I hope we're taking them home."

"First we need to see how much truth they were telling." The look that came over her face made it obvious that she didn't approve.

"Meanie." Sherlock huffed.

"That's not a real word. Imbecile. I-M-B-E-C-I-L-E."

"I-M-B-E-C-I-L-E."

"Very good." Mycroft praised, dipping his hand into his pocket and retrieving the keys he had pick pocketed from the older man. Sherlock got his wallet. The two boys locked themselves in the car. The noises of the locks going down was more than enough to get Lestrade's attention again. He immediately attempted to open up the door again and Mycroft smirked at him.

"I will put you both in a cell. Open this door right now."

"Well you could do that, but it seems hard to explain how you managed to lock two children in your car. I'm also guessing you have spare keys as you very well should, but considering I can lock it just as fast as you can unlock it, the windows are unbreakable, and you'd need the jaws of life to get the door off, it seems we're at an impasse." Lestrade banged on the window. The boy was way too smart for his own good.

"You will open this door right now. Someone get me their parents on the phone! And someone get me the spare keys!"

"Mummy's sick and we don't have a father. I doubt that's going to get you anywhere." Mycroft assured him. Sherlock browsed through the wallet and Lestrade could only watch as the two boys emptied out his wallet and examined the contents.

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of the Scotland Yard."

"Open the door!"

"You keep yelling at us like it's helping." Mycroft didn't even bother looking at him. Greg turned away from the car, taking a moment to calm himself down. No matter how intelligent they were, they were still kids, which was a hard thing to remember. He turned back again.

"Please open the door."

"No."

"Open the door!"

"You're yelling again." Mycroft scolded the same way he did his brother.

"What's an 'S and M Bondage Club'?" Sherlock examined the rather plain card curiously. He passed it to his brother, but the older male simply shrugged. Sherlock turned toward the window.

"What is it, then, DI Lestrade?" Oh god this was turning out to be awful. Donavon wasn't helping at all (though he didn't expect her to know anything about kids, either) and now thought he was some sort of pervert.

"That is not for little boys. That has to do with a case and you need to put it down right now and open this door."

"I hardly think we're your typical 'little boys'." Mycroft scoffed, examining the card further.

"It smells like latex."

"His wallet's leather."

"This code. It's to the bad part of town. Not many people go down there."

"There's no picture, so it must be something secret."

"S and M stands for something." The brother glanced to one another, running through what they knew.

"Could it be drugs? He said it had to do with a case."

"Bondage is the condition of being controlled by something that limits freedom. So it is possible." Mycroft mused.

"Alright. Fine. What do I have to do to get you to open this damn door?" Lestrade smacked the glass again with his palms as if it would magically open. Four eyes turned to him.

"Apologize." Mycroft demanded.

"For what?"

"We were trying to help and you yelled at us." Sherlock puffed his cheeks out.

"That was very rude." Mycroft followed up. Greg's forehead fell against the window with a 'thump'.

"I am sorry." He said slowly. "I did not mean to be rude or upset with you." It was painfully formal and stiff. Mycroft looked away with disinterest and Sherlock did the same.

"What else is in his wallet?"

"Debt card. Library card. Forty euro."

"That seems to be a lot for carrying around."

" That's it." The two brothers mulled over the business card with little more clues. Lestrade really hoped they wouldn't figure it out. He doubted they would, since they did seem to be clueless so far. Little boys, he kept tell himself. Just two bratty little boys.

"Could it be naughty words?"

"I don't see why not." More silences as they thoughts. Lestrade nearly snatched the keys away as they were brought out. He knew he should have taken the squad car. The little brats needed to be confined, just not like this. Sure enough, every time he unlocked it, Mycroft instantly hit the opposite button staring a war of clicking noises.

"Let go of the button!" The boy ignored him.

"It has to be natural occurrence to 'bondage'." Lestrade never thought he'd be in such a situation. Let alone listening to a pair of kids try to figure out a sex card. He knew he should clean his wallet out more often.

"Slavery and murder?"

"No. He wouldn't have kept it if it held bad memories and wouldn't be caught with it if it would get him into trouble." These kids were insane!

"If you open the door, I'll tell you." Again, he managed to capture their attention. Mycroft searched over his face, but turned away again.

"No he won't. He's lying."

"I am sorry, boys. I did not mean to snap at you. This case is very frustrating and you two are a pair of smart asses."

"Please stop cursing in front of Sherlock. He will repeat everything."

"Right. Open the door please. We'll see this flower shop, ask a few people, then I'll help you buy your Mummy a present and take you home, okay?" He said as calmly and as gently as he could. He'd given up. Completely. He heard the door unlock and swiftly opened it before the boy could change his mind.

"I still want ice cream." Sherlock murmured as the detective took his things back.

"Yeah. Sure. I'll get you some ice cream when we're done."

"Well you were right. She didn't see his face, either." Lestrade sat on the bench beside the two boys. Mycroft held a bundle of flowers in both hands, sitting as proper as could be as Sherlock made himself sticky with the strange combination of ice cream he had chosen.

"I suppose I should take you two home now. Your Mummy is probably going to worry." He helped Sherlock clean himself off. For such a young creature, he was surprisingly easy to take care of. They both were, really, when they weren't sulking.

"Are you going to tell me where you live?" Hopefully he wasn't going to make this any more difficult. Mycroft nodded simply.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's go home." He took his brother's newly cleaned hand in his own and Lestrade followed them back to the car. The older male was just as good as giving directions as he seemed to be about everything else. The home was nice in size, though it didn't look well taken care of. Lestrade had to wonder how long their mother had been sick and even more so, if they were taking care of themselves. He followed them inside.

"The key's up there." Mycroft instructed, pointing toward the hanging lamp. "It's taped to the edge." Carefully, Lestrade fetched it. Mycroft took it from him before he could unlock the door though, and instead used the key to unlock a camouflage rock under a bush down the pathway. He returned with the key, unlocked the door and wiped his feet before entering. Sherlock and Lestrade did the same.

The older boy lit several candles, which Lestrade thought was quiet dangerous, and carried the flowers into the kitchen. A quick test of the lights assured him that they didn't work.

"You don't have electricity?"

"One day it just turned off." Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft returned, having placed the bouquet in a vase of water. He trotted up the stairs and Sherlock followed close behind. The detective was getting an awful feeling, but followed after them. The older of the brothers quietly entered one of the up stairs room and set the flowers on the bed side table.

"Is Mummy sleeping again?"

"Yes Sherlock. She's very tired." Lestrade took a step toward the covered bed. He parted the curtains even as Mycroft viciously glared at him. He was horrified to see that she was not sleeping and hadn't been for a very long time. By the way she looked, she had to have been here for weeks.

"Mycroft, how long has your Mummy been 'sleeping'?"

"Two and a half weeks." Lestrade had been expecting to be able to speak with the woman, to explain to her that her children would need to be kept safe and that they would probably need to be moved somewhere where they could be protected. He had not been expecting to find this. This horrible horrible thing. Mycroft frowned at him. The boy knew. For two and half weeks they'd been taking care of themselves.

"Come on, boys." He instructed, closing the curtain again. "I'll take care of you while your Mummy is sick."


	2. Chapter 2

"We can't find any Holmes." Donavon muttered softly. "Their father just disappeared off the face of the Earth. We don't even know if he's alive or dead. No relatives. Not even a long distant cousin. They're all alone. I did some checking around, too. They haven't been to school in months. They've just been about." Lestrade had a worry that they were out pick pocketing people. They were good at it, after all. He frowned, watching the two boys, squeezed into the same chair they had been earlier. They needed to be protected, regardless, and couldn't just be put in a home. He was sure they would escape, anyways.

He could only nod and hope they could locate the serial killer before either of them got hurt. He wasn't looking forward to talking to them. He really wasn't good with kids. However, he didn't trust anyone else to do it. He re-entered his office, closing the door gently behind him. He did feel a little bit guilty about his attitude earlier.

"Boys," Lestrade began. "Your Mummy isn't sick." Mycroft's glare returned.

"She's dead." He explained as gently as he could. Sherlock frowned a little, but didn't look any closer to crying than he had before.

"I had my supcesions."

"Suspicions." Mycroft corrected automatically, though he knew Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to say. He was aware his little brother knew people didn't sleep that long, but it was for the best.

"Why didn't you tell anyone, Mycroft?" He tried not to blame the little boy, but things could have turned ugly fast, no matter how smart they seemed to be.

"Because people don't adopt two children at our age." Lestrade understood his worry of being separate.

"How have you been taking care of yourselves?"

"Helping people, mostly." Mycroft answered reluctantly. "Sherlock and I help the older people carry groceries home and then we buy food."

"And sometimes we find money on the ground and the businesses let us sweep and clean once in a while." Sherlock added. It was strange that neither of the Holmes were acting too shaken up about their mother's death. Of course, in the whole four hours that he knew them, they were not, by any means, normal children.

"The woman at the market always helps us shop." Mycroft was sure it was because she was humoring them in their attempt to be adult like.

"No one else knows about your mother?" The older brother shook his head. How could he tell anyone else? They'd try to separate them.

"We'll find someone to take care of you. Both of you."

"I want to stay with you." Sherlock answered rather swiftly. Mycroft quickly followed with a nod.

"We want to stay with you, Mr. Lestrade." Greg instantly thought back to their little conflict earlier that very day. It made him very weary of wanting anything to do with either of them. They'd be better off with someone that could take care of them properly and hopefully not be outsmarted by the boys.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"We know where you live." Of course they did. He was sure that was equal to a threat. Whether he wanted to or not, they would show up on his door step. His wife was going to be so pissed off.

"Just until we find someone for you to live with permanently." Both boys smiled at him. "But you have to listen to me when I tell you something. No more locking yourselves in my car. Or anywhere else for that matter." They nodded quickly, seeming much more pleased with the idea than they should be. On the other hand, Lestrade realized that these boys had never really had a father figured and no one really knew how long their mother had been sick before she finally passed. For all he knew, they could have been taking care of themselves for years. It seemed unlikely, but anything was possible with these boys.

"You do realize how much danger you're in, don't you?"

"Considering what we saw of your serial killer, a lot." Mycroft finally seemed a little worried and in return, so did Sherlock.

"I don't want you to worry. Everything's going to be fine, okay?" He placed a hand on either of their heads gently.

"I just want you to be weary of strangers and try to stay close to me, or one of the other people out there, okay? Me or Sally will always be around."

"Sally or I."

"Right." He took that as a sign that they were not fond of Sally. He was sure they weren't going to take his wife, either, since she wasn't going to take to them. There was a reason they'd never had kids, after all. Not the only reason, but the big one.

"Someone's going to go and get your clothes from the house, is there anything else you need?" The brother's exchanged worried looks. It would be hard for them to leave their home, but Lestrade would do whatever he could to keep them tame. Least he wanted them to throw another tantrum.

"The books."

"We will bring your books." Sherlock smiled a little, grabbing the hand on his head with both hands.

"It's okay to be sad, you know." Lestrade promised.

"Why would we still be sad?"

"Sherlock." Mycroft said sharply. There was something wrong with the younger one, Lestrade could tell. He truly wasn't sad. It was a little unsettling. A child as young and as smart as Sherlock should understand what was happening and Lestrade had no doubt that he did, he just didn't care.

"Come on. It's been a long day. Let's go home." This time the boys followed him out properly. He helped buckle them into the backseat, though they could easily do it on their own, and took them home. Sherlock was pleased to see the blooming tree in the front yard and watched them cling to the bottom of his shoes.

"Whose kids are those?" The woman questioned with near instant displeasure.

"Nice to see you, too." Greg murmured in response. "Come on boys. You'll have to share the bed in the guest room for now." He hurriedly led them down the hall, which Mycroft had been right about. It went straight from the living room and kitchen down to the bathroom with rooms on either side. Between the kitchen and the bed rooms the hallway branched off to the front door. He spotted the little camera after a few seconds, sitting in a picture frame.

"Here. Watch some telly." He instructed, flipping on the little tv to something intelligent. Then he left. Instantly, the two brothers went to work exploring. The room was clean and obviously storage room for family and friends stopping by. It was comfortable, though not their own home. Mycroft was distracted almost instantly at the sound of yelling. He couldn't hear the detective, he was actually speaking rather than yelling. She wanted nothing to do with them. Mycroft didn't think that was fair considering she didn't know them. He had to guess it was due to her habits of visiting the neighbors. He wouldn't want to interfere with that.

Sherlock was more interested in the television. They hadn't had tv for a while now, since the power went out. Mycroft tried to keep him away from it, anyways. This, however, he approved of, though he wasn't sure when they would ever need to know how they manufactured butterfly razors. The argument drew on longer than Mycroft was willing to listen. This argument wasn't going anywhere except for up and he soon joined his brother on the bed to watch the tv.

Soon enough, the older man returned to the room. To give him some credit, he managed not to look annoyed or frustrated in any way.

"Come on, boys. Let's get you something to eat." He led them down the hall again and motioned them to the little table that sat in the dining room connected to the quaint kitchen. Both Holmes were already analyzing Mrs. Lestrade from where she stood judging them in the kitchen. After searching the kitchen and finding nothing to feed two little boys, Greg called for takeout. Rightful so, too. Mycroft wasn't about to put diet anything in his mouth and sure enough, Sherlock wouldn't enjoy flavorless food either.

"Please stop staring." It was just plain rude. The very polite comment seemed to enrage her and Mycroft hadn't the least idea why. All the better, though. She turned away. Sherlock traced the designs on the table top and Mycroft sat quietly until Lestrade returned. He relaxed in the seat beside the older brother.

"Okay,"

"You say that a lot." Sherlock murmured, curious as to why.

"Yes. I guess I do." Greg answered. Mycroft was a little impressed. People usually ignored Sherlock's questions and it was definitely a question.

"Since I'm acting as your legal guardian for now, I have to enroll you in school."

"I don't like school." Sherlock complained loudly. Perhaps the first real child like thing he'd seen him do. Mycroft didn't look particularly happy, either.

"You have to go to school."

"We're homeschooled." Mycroft explained.

"You are?"

"It was easy. All the information we needed was lying around somewhere." That was what the Holmes were good at, after all. All the information was somewhere, it was natural skill to find and use it with a little bit of skill to remember it all.

"I- suppose that's okay." Greg was trying not to be surprised by anything these kids were doing, but it was a little hard. Mycroft had hidden his mother's death from everyone for over two weeks, of course he was proper enough to make sure they were getting an education. He fetched a pad and pen from a pile of paper on the kitchen counter and swiftly returned.

"All the paper work is filed in the office at," Mycroft paused and the older man saw a wave of sadness flutter by.

"We'll find them." Greg interrupted so the young boy wouldn't have to find a word to call his old home. Mycroft frowned.

"I've never taken care of kids before,"

"We noticed." Sherlock murmured.

"So I'm going to make a list. Starting with school. So Primary School."

"We're already on Secondary School."

"I thought you were five and seven."

"And?" Right. Age had nothing on these boys. "All the books we've been learning from are – with the rest." Mycroft explained.

"Sherlock can be very stubborn with some of the subjects. He doesn't like books, unless it's sensationalism." Off the top of his head, Greg had no idea what that was. He supposed that was bad.

"He doesn't like astrology," Was Sherlock even old enough to be learning astrology? "Or politics." He was five. "He likes plant science, though. Flowers and things of the like. He's especially fond of chemistry. He's decent in anatomy. He's already mastered math beyond the use of the common knowledge. He refuses to learn history. I have to sneak it in."

Sherlock popped his head up suspiciously.

"He can speak two other languages, but can neither write nor read them. And I've been teaching him music on father's violin." Greg glanced toward the younger male spelling words with his finger on the table top. He was five.

"I like puzzles." Sherlock added in after a moment and Mycroft nodded.

"He likes puzzles."

"And you?"

"Well," Mycroft began once again. "I'm an avid reader. Beyond your level, no offense of course, but you did misspell 'Sensationalism'. S-e-n-s-a-t-i-o-n-a-l-i-s-m."

"S-e-n-s-a-t-i-o-n-a-l-i-s-m." Sherlock repeated.

"And whether I like them or not, I study all of my subjects. I like politics and chemistry." At least he had an idea of how to keep them busy. Hopefully for longer than a couple of hours.

"We'll try the homeschooling for now," With some help. Greg knew he wouldn't be able to keep up with the two boys on his own. While Mycroft was very mature for his age, he was still a boy. The detective wondered if even the little boy forgot he was a little boy.

"Mycroft doesn't like puzzles."

"I don't like puzzles."

"And the food man is here." Sherlock sat up and pulled himself to the table and the doorbell echoed the house soon after. Lestrade tucked his pen behind his ear and sure enough, went to fetch the food. He dished out a bit of food for each of them, making sure they were well fed. He wasn't entirely sure how well the two boys had been getting along, even with the little money they managed to make.

Neither of them seemed interested in picking through their food and gladly ate every bit of it. Mycroft hadn't been the best of friends with the stove, after all. Not to mention the gas followed suit of the electricity. Warm meals were not common in the Holmes household. Once both boys had had their fill, Sherlock instantly squirmed away from the table. Greg wasn't sure what he was up to, but he allowed the boy to explore the rest of the little house. Mycroft helped him bring the dishes to the sink and pack up the leftovers.

Then there was the sound of the tub running. Lestrade glanced towards his wife, still angrily giving him the silent treatment on the couch, before realizing Sherlock was running the tub. Mycroft didn't seem to care one way or the other. Of course he knew how to bath himself. That didn't last long, of course. There was a loud yelp followed by the obvious sound of the little boy tripping over his own feet. Mycroft was just slightly faster than Lestrade at dropping everything and rushing down the hall.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade kneeled down beside him quickly and Mycroft stood by the door worriedly.

"The water was scolding." Sherlock teared up a little. "S-c-o-l-d-i-n-g." Lestrade examined his hand gently, but he hadn't hurt himself. It was probably more startling than anything else. He released a sigh of relief.

"Of course it is."

"We didn't get hot water at home." Mycroft explained. The water heater had been broken, Lestrade realized the moment he realized everything but the water was off.

"It stings." Sherlock whined softly.

"It's okay." Lestrade hoisted him off the ground and set him on the side of the sink. He ran the cold water and motioned the boy to put his burnt hand under it. "It's cold. Come on." He instructed. Hesitantly, Sherlock put his hand under the stream and relaxed a little.

"Better?"

"A little bit." Little Sherlock said lowly. Lestrade pressed a kiss to his palm softly.

"How 'bout now?" The little boy giggled softly and the detective set him back on the ground.

"Next time you want a bath, just ask me, okay? I'll do it for you."

"There's that word again." He pointed out and Lestrade could only chuckle a little. He played with the faucet a little until the water was warm and let it fill up the tub.

"Get in, then. Both of you." He instructed. Mycroft didn't argue. Greg gathered up their clothes to wash and was sure to leave the door open a crack behind him. There was no need for any slipping and falling and drowning in this house. Though he was sure the Holmes were drown proof. And probably fire proof.

He immediately set about washing their clothes with a few other pieces of laundry to make a full load. He returned to find the tub flooded with bubbles, and while he was curious as o how they got there, decided that it wasn't that important.

"Make sure you wash yourself thoroughly." He set two cloths on the side of the tub and left once more to find something for the boys to wear for the night. He didn't have anything small enough for either of them, considering they'd never had kids and rarely kept clothes that didn't fit. Lestrade donated most of them. He scraped together what he could, though, and returned to the bathroom. He could already tell the obvious difference in the two boys. Sherlock was an active one, ready to do everything (including splashing water all over the floor) and Mycroft obviously preferred to sit aside and do nothing.

Lestrade helped them out the tub to prevent anymore falling, and wrapped them both in towels before following after them like a father penguin after the little penguin.

"You'll have to make do with these for now." He explained as he helped Sherlock button up his shirt. Mycroft seemed a little reluctant, but with nothing else to wear, wormed his way into the oversized white shirt. He supposed he could sleep in this just this one time. Lestrade helped them both dry off their hair, rather thankful that they both had rather long hair. The thought of Mycroft trying to cut either of them near the face bothered him. He'd take them to get haircuts later this week.

"You said you like puzzles, right?" Sherlock only smiled brightly. He knew where this was going. "Fifteen hundred pieces. Enjoy." The little boy instantly emptied the entire box onto the floor and went to work. Lestrade was glad he'd found it in the back of the closet. With his little brother busy, Mycroft hesitantly looked around as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself. Finally, he climbed onto the bed and flipped through the tv channels. Lestrade stretched himself out on the other side of the bed.

Mycroft really wasn't kidding when he said he liked politics. He flipped between a few of the news channels, Lestrade was sure he was looking for one he deemed more reputable, before settling on one and sitting on the edge of the bed. With both boys busy, the detective soon drifted off to sleep, still dressed beside his shoes. He hadn't meant to fall asleep and when he awoke it was already morning.

Sherlock was curled up against his chest and Mycroft head rested his head on Lestrade's knee. Both seemed completely comfortable, too. He yawned, ruffled his own hair, and watched the telly for a few moments. It was still too early for work. The news mocked him. 'Serial Killer still on the loose'. Which he knew was just a simple way of them trying to say he was incompetent to catch said killer.

He slipped away from the brothers and quietly exited the room. He threw their clothes into the drier and took note that his wife was already gone. He had no idea where she could have gone so early in the morning, but didn't spar it another thought. He hopped in the shower, once again leaving the door cracked to listen for the boys, and dressed himself for the new day. By the time he was done, Mycroft had managed to retrieve their clothes and the two brothers were dressed again.

"We're ready to go." Mycroft assured him.

"We'll get you two something to eat on the way." Lestrade was glad they were so willing to do everything. They were independent little children.

"I finished the puzzle." Sherlock added in with only a bubble of sleepiness. The detective allowed the boy to lead him back to the bedroom. That was not the puzzle.

"Then I got bored, so I made this." He added. Lestrade examined the object he had made with the puzzle pieces. It was fantastic, honestly.

"I- Is this my work?" He questioned. Sherlock nodded.

"You did that with fifteen hundred puzzle pieces?" Sure that was a lot of pieces, but this was a model of the building, rough sure, but still obviously to what it was. There was no cutting or glueing or anything.

"One thousand four hundred and ninety seven. Some pieces were missing." Sherlock corrected him.

"Wow." So much for puzzles. If he was going to keep Sherlock busy he'd need something bigger.

Sherlock fell asleep in the backseat on the way. Lestrade stopped and picked up a warm breakfast for the three of them. Mycroft was as quiet as he ever was. It worried Lestrade a little, but he couldn't make the boy talk. He was probably quiet by nature.

"Come on, Sherlock." Mycroft nudged his brother a little and the little Holmes whined loudly. Lestrade wasn't sure how long he'd been up last night and would have to be more careful from now on. He ushered the boys inside, following close behind them with the boxes of food, and into his office. He pushed the two chairs against the edge of his desk and moved a few things out of the way for them to eat as he went about his own work with few bites in between.

Sherlock returned to sleep once he'd finished and napped for an entire hour before he was ready for something. Of course, Lestrade had nothing for him to do and eventually led him down to the lab.

"This is Anderson. Anderson, this is Sherlock." The little boy was amazed by all of the things, eyes darting every which was. Anderson offered a small, but very unsure smile.

"Why is there a little boy here?"

"Sherlock likes chemistry and I don't trust him in my office alone. Just let him watch." Lestrade insisted. After seeing what he'd done with the puzzle, he was sure Sherlock would get to work on all kinds of trouble when left unattended to. That hadn't been trouble, sure, but for all he knew Sherlock would have started taking things apart when he was done with said puzzle. "You can't touch anything, okay Sherlock?" The curly haired boy nodded rapidly.

"It's okay, Anderson. He's very smart for his age. To be honest, you'll probably find intelligent conversation." And a lot of spelling, but he doubted he would mind. "Just keep him in your sight, okay?" Anderson frowned as the DI left and turned back to the child. Sherlock smiled at him.

"Hello."

"Hello."

"What are you doing?" Sherlock pondered curiously.

"Well, uh, I'm putting blood samples in for testing."

"Biochemical analysis?" He continued on. Anderson stared at him, bewildered.

"Yeah. That."

"What are you looking for?"

"I'm not sure that was a good idea." Mycroft murmured as Lestrade returned to his office. "Sherlock gets bored."

"Anderson will keep an eye on him." The detective assured him. "Will you be okay?" Mycroft hadn't shown an interest in doing much of anything. He seemed perfectly content with watching the people buzz outside his office. The little boy nodded

"I'll be right out there if you need me." He promised and Mycroft simply nodded again. It was a few hours until Anderson came storming up with Sherlock under his arm like a piece of unwanted baggage. He set the child before Lestrade and Sherlock looked up to him innocently.

"You keep him away from me." He demanded, pointing to the child like he was some sort of dog. Anderson stormed away, back to his lab. Lestrade pressed a hand to his forehead.

"What did you do, Sherlock?" Instantly, he puffed his cheeks out and crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly.

"He started it." The boy complained.

"Started what?"

"He called me an ass burger." He complained. Lestrade stared at him blankly for a moment. That sounded very unlikely.

"Anderson called you an ass burger? Why would he do that?"

"I don't know." Sherlock insisted.

"And why is he so mad?"

"Because I punched him. In the knee cap. Several times."

"I think you need to apologize to Anderson." The little Holmes made no movement to do so, sure enough, and turned away from the man a little. Lestrade sighed.

"Just go sit with your brother, Sherlock."

"It's Asperger. A-s-p-e-r-g-e-r." Mycroft explained once he'd gotten Sherlock to calm down. He was rather upset that the DI had taken the side of the other man. Sherlock had been in the wrong, but it wasn't his fault. Then again, he didn't have to assault the older man, either.

"Am I one of those?" Sherlock questioned worried. Mycroft glanced down to where his brother sat on the floor, not entirely sure how to respond.

"Adults have strange words for things. Don't pay them any mind. You should apologize to that man, though." He tacked on. "I've told you about being violent." Sherlock poked his lip out, but it had little influence on his older brother.

"Okay." He finally murmured, already beginning to mimic the older man as well.

It was a little after noon when Molly hurried up with her report. The sight of the two boys in his office distracted her almost immediately.

"Aw. Who are you?"

"These are," Lestrade motioned to the two for a moment. "My sons." Both Holmes turned to him in surprise. "I adopted them yesterday."

"You're just adorable." Molly smiled sweetly, kneeling down to be face to face with little Sherlock.

"A-D-O-R-A-B-L-E." Sherlock spelled for her, instantly impressing her and receiving another squeal of attention.

"What do you do?"

"Sherlock." Mycroft interrupted unpleasantly. Lestrade was getting very suspicious about his seemingly needless scolding of his brother. Sherlock shifted away only a little before completely disregarding his brother.

"I work in the morgue. Do you know what a morgue is?"

"It's where you open bodies." Sherlock smiled pleasantly. Molly meet Lestrade's eyes for a moment.

"The paper's, Hooper." Hurriedly she handed them over and Lestrade motioned her out of his office. Sherlock frowned and returned to where he sulked with boredom in his chair. There was nothing to do here. He sat quietly for another long half hour, having already examined all of the papers on the desk twice over and still finding nothing interesting. Lestrade sensed his frustration.

"Come on, then. Let's go get you boys' stuff to take home. Nothing more we can do for now."


	3. Chapter 3

"That's all of it." Lestrade pushed himself off the ground with the help of the dresser. After kneeling for so long, it was a little difficult to get up. Mycroft only offered a small smile. He was probably still a little nervous, even more so now since it was actually happening. He glanced into the drawer now holding his and Sherlock's clothing.

"Come on. Let's get you guys something to eat. Why don't we go out and have a nice dinner. Sherlock seems to like his suit too much, anyways." The little boy had found it in the boxes and wouldn't take it off. He looked like a proper little gentleman.

"I'm going to guess that you guys haven't eaten out in a while." He doubted there were many restaurants that would serve two kids.

"Is Mrs. Lestrade coming?" The older of the boys asked, though he refused to act worried about it. She was an awful woman. Mycroft didn't like her.

"Oh. Well. Mr. Lestrade has no idea where Mrs. Lestrade is. So; no."

"She's next door." Sherlock piped in.

"Yes. I know." Greg mumbled.

"But you said you didn't know."

"Yes. I did say that. No. She will not be coming with us." He assured them both. "Would you like to get into a suit too, Mycroft?" The two brothers watched him with similar grey-ish green eyes. He could tell they were putting things together, which Greg was quickly becoming more okay with. They were intelligent and he would have to make sure they kept it. Finally, Mycroft nodded. As Lestrade left the room to change his own clothes, Sherlock trudged on his heels. There was no telling where the young boy wanted to go or do. Most times he would stick around someone, though mostly Mycroft and a few times Lestrade, but every once in a while he would wonder off all by himself and would just be gone. He'd given Lestrade several panic attacks in only two days. He always returned, of course, and never seemed to get himself hurt.

Lestrade set him on top of the dresser where the boy groomed himself in the mirror. He liked to be clean, apparently, and the older man had found him grooming himself when there was nothing else to do and even combing his brother's hair when Mycroft would allow it. The boy quietly helped him dress by blandly telling them that 'there's scuffle marks on the elbows', 'that shirt's wrinkly', 'that ties makes you look too plain', and 'those shoes don't match' among other things. Only when Sherlock had no more complaints did he deem himself ready to leave. On one hand, this combination did look good on him.

Mycroft looked completely natural in his little beige suit and Lestrade had never thought kids looked good in suits. Though Sherlock was happy in his suit, he couldn't move as he wanted to. He kept having to straighten out the sides and the collar and the back would wrinkled every time his slouched. Mycroft and his perfect posture seemed to hardly notice he was in a suit.

"Alright. Into the car." He instructed, filling his pockets with his wallet and keys. The two boys sat quietly together in the back, as they always did, but Mycroft seemed intent on watching him.

"Is everything okay, Mycroft?"

"Why do you keep using that word?" Sherlock questioned instantly.

"Uh. Because everything is going to be okay. Mycroft?"

"I'm fine." The older Holmes assured him before averting his eyes elsewhere. Lestrade choose a decent restaurant (within his price range) and it turned out to be a wonderful choice. Both brothers, Sherlock more so, were amazed by the size and class of it.

"I'm sorry sir, children are not allowed in this establishment." Which was understandable, Lestrade supposed. Most kids were loud and obnoxious, but this man didn't know the Holmes.

"Perhaps we should tell your manager you've been stealing silver wear." Mycroft suggested.

"And tips." Sherlock added.

"I believe those are both crimes, aren't they Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Habitually Lestrade pushed the ends of his coat back and settled his hands on his back.

"You're right, Mycroft. That is the perfect picture of thief." He assured his little adopted son. The host stared at them blandly with obvious rage, but didn't dare say a word. Lestrade wasn't sure if the Holmes were telling the truth, though they didn't seem to be that intent on lying when directly asked a question, but the man lead them to a table which was more than enough for him to know the boys were right on the head.

"Your waitress will be with you in a moment." He nearly spat before tramping off. Lestrade smirked at the boys huddled together in the booth.

"I suppose you two will want to be detectives when you grow up." He suggested. They bought sprouted looks of digest, and this time Sherlock's was one of his own.

"Unlikely." Mycroft murmured.

"I'm going to be a pirate." Sherlock claimed all too seriously. Lestrade tried not to chuckle.

"You'll make an amazing pirate." He assured the young boy. Mycroft frowned with disapproval. The waitress came and went, though not without a bit of flirting. Lestrade was rather taken with her. She was young and polite and very pretty, after all. His marriage certainly wasn't going anywhere. The sooner he could get her out of his house, the better. She gladly returned to the table several times unneededly to continue with a bit of flirting. Sherlock was not pleased. Every time she returned, he glared her down, even going as far as to stop eating when she came around to make sure she understood he was not happy with her seducing the detective.

"She has two kids." Mycroft murmured between bites of his fish. He hadn't shown any sign of being bothered by her, though.

"Pardon?"

"That woman. She has two kids." He spared a small glance at the man. Lestrade wasn't entirely sure what to say.

"So?"

"You have us." Sherlock frowned almost pointedly. Ah. They were jealous.

"You're getting ahead of yourselves." He assured them, but both boys simply looked away anxiously. Dinner was cut short, and thankfully, so was the flirting. They watched him closely as he answered his phone and immediately frustration flooded back.

"I'm on my way."

"Fifty seven quid and ten pence." Mycroft stated as soon as he'd put the phone down. Lestrade instantly dished out a few bills onto the table to pay for their meal as the boys hurried out of the both without need for instruction.

"I'll be back about your thief." Lestrade warned the host as he followed his two kids out to the car. They hopped into the back swiftly and without complaint.

"Seat belts!" The kids swished around in the backseat as he sped off. When they finally came to a stop, police lights flashing about, Lestrade was sure little Mycroft was going to be sick. Note to self: Do not shake Mycroft after feeding. He shrugged off his outer coat and tossed it into the passenger's seat and armed himself. The older man turned in his seat in his final thought.

"Don't you dare unlock the doors for anyone. Do you understand?" He ordered firmly. The Holmes nodded quickly and Lestrade returned a curt, pleased nod. He locked the car behind him and started toward Donavon and the ambulance.

"What happened?" Lestrande demanded. Sally motioned to the man being treated.

"This is Doctor John Watson. He was approached by a stranger and then stabbed twice. He fought back, said he landed a few blows, and the man fled." The shorter blond man looked away from the deep wound they were tending to on his shoulder and to the man.

"Did you see your attacker?"

"Barely. It happened pretty fast. About six feet, two hundred pounds,"

"Asphalt hair?" Lestrade continued and John nodded.

"Yeah. I didn't get a good look at his face, it was dark, but he had some kind of mark on his neck and wrist. I think they were burn marks." He explained.

_iTap, tap, tap./i_

"Caucasian?"

"Yeah. And,"

_iTap, tap, tap. /i_

"Uh,"

_iTap, tap, tap. /i_

"Are those kids in your car?" John questioned and Lestrade turned to glance over his shoulder. Sherlock sat on his knees, tapping on the glass of the backseat window with his little knuckles. He could only blame himself. He hadn't told Sherlock to keep quiet, after all, and Sherlock rarely did as he was told and more often never did what he wasn't.

_i"Mr. Lestrade," /i_He called out and the detective turned back again.

"Yes. The man?" Lestrade insisted again and John looked back up to him.

"Right. He didn't say anything, but,"

_i"Mr. Lestrade," /i_

"But he, uh,"

_i"Mr. Lestrade!" /i_

"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. I'll be right back." Lestrade apologized and unenthusiastically returned to the car. He leaned over the window, staring down at the younger Holmes inside.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Did the attacker smell like Hibiscus?" He questioned innocently.

"Why would he still smell like Hibiscus?"

"Ask him." Sherlock insisted, giving his protector that begging look. He was very good at it. Lestrade sighed softly.

"Alright. Fine, but you need to let me do my job, okay?" The little boy nodded and pressed his lips firmly together as if to assure the man he wouldn't say anything more. He probably would. Lestrade turned back and was met with Sally's disapproving look. He ignored it. She hadn't exactly offered to help him. What was he suppose to do with them?

"Sorry," He apologized. John smiled a little, hand pressed to his wounded shoulder.

"It's fine."

"So," Greg drew on a little more than he needed to. "Did he smell like flowers?" Such a bizarre question, he realized after he had asked it.

_i"Hibiscus!"/i _

"Did he smell like Hibiscus?" He corrected. John didn't look amused, but rather curious. After a moment of silence, he nodded.

"Now that you mentioned it, yeah, he did." The blonde man confirmed. Lestrade's uncertainty quickly made a turn for the better. He glanced toward the car again, where Sherlock watched him smugly.

"Are you completely sure?"

"I'm not familiar with Hibiscus specifically, but he definitely smelled flowery."

"I'm going to need you to come down with me. You might be in danger."

Sherlock had taken to the man swiftly. It hadn't taken him long at all to discover that John was recently back from the military, though the blonde man hadn't spoken a word to the little Holmes. As soon as he entered the car, catering to his slung arm, Sherlock ambushed him with questions.

"Why are you limping? Your leg isn't wounded. Where did you get shot? There must have been a lot of sun there. Some of you is tan. Why aren't you staying with Harry? He was nice enough to give you his phone, but I don't think he wants it anymore since he left his wife."

"Sherlock." Lestrade and Mycroft said sharply. Sherlock glanced between them with an obviously hurt look and promptly flopped back against the seat, his arms crossed over his chest. John only laughed.

"How did you know all of that-"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock?" John turned a little to glance into the backseat. Sherlock perked up again.

"Well, you limp when you walk, but not when you stand. If your limp was real, you'd be u-n-c-o-m-f-o-r-t-a-b-l-e when you stood." He explained.

"It's psychosomatic." Mycroft murmured. "P-s-y-c-h-o-s-o-m-a-t-i-c."

"P-s-y-c-h-o-s-o-m-a-t-i-c." Sherlock repeated. "What's that?" Before John could explain, the older Holmes did. Not only was he use to elucidation everything to his little brother, he enjoyed it. Besides, he could probably explain things better for Sherlock than they could.

"It means his mind makes him think he's wounded due to the trauma of the real wound."

"Then you are hurt, Mr. Watson?" He questioned worriedly. John patted his wounded shoulder.

"Shot in the shoulder." Which was only worsened by today's stabbing, but he supposed a wound was a wound. He couldn't expect much assistance from the joint now.

"I was a doctor in Afghanistan." Sherlock had no idea where that was, but decided that it wasn't very important. He continued on.

"I saw your phone when you checked it. It says Harry Watson on the back and Clara and kisses."

"You saw that from so far away?"

"Of course. He wouldn't give it to you unless he didn't want it anymore and if she gave it to him, they had to be close, so they're not close anymore. You're obviously not staying with him because you just finished looking for a flat when you got attacked." He knew he was right, though the man looked at him with the same amused look many adults did right before they asked him 'who told you to come over here'.

"That's brilliant." Both brothers turned to the army man with surprise. No one had ever complimented them before, either of them. Sherlock wasn't sure what to say.

"B-r-i-l-l-i-a-n-t."

"I'm not staying with Harry because of all of her drinking and, yes, because she left her wife." John nodded.

"Harry is a she?"

"Harry is short or Harriet."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"That was an interesting car ride." John admitted. Sherlock clung to his leg curiously, making it rather difficult to walk, but he didn't have the heart to shake him away. Mycroft followed close behind, watching the older man with doubt. Lestrade kept insisting Sherlock to let him go, but John assured him it was fine. Once back in the comfort of Lestrade's office, Sherlock made himself comfortable in the man's lap.

"I'm sorry." Greg apologizes once again and again, John responded with a small smile.

"It really is fine. Your son's very affectionate." Lestrade didn't correct him. Mycroft watched the adults speak, though most of his attention was on his brother. He knew Sherlock loved attention and would follow anyone who gave it to him, which worried Mycroft to no end, but it still made him uneasy. John wasn't a threat by any means, as far as Mycroft could tell, but he wasn't afraid to be wrong.

Their talking went on and soon enough, Sherlock drifted off to sleep and though he tried not to, so did Mycroft, still partially upright in the seat. He was slightly aware when Lestrade picked him up and was awake enough to shrug out of his overcoat and shoes. He knew he was back at home, but was too tired to do anything about it. He could feel Sherlock snoozing away beside him and when the covers were pulled up, he was instantly asleep.

He was awaken the next morning by more yelling. Mrs. Lestrade again. Mildly disoriented by the sudden noise, it took Mycroft a moment to realize he was back at home and not still in the station. Before that, however, he noticed Sherlock wasn't in the bed next to him. He hurried out almost instantly, trying not to panic as he searched out his little brother. Sherlock wasn't far away, hovering around the corner from the living room and watching the adults fight.

"Sherlock," He said lowly and his brother peeked over his shoulder at him.

"You didn't even ask me about bring those kids home!"

"Not everything is about you. They need someone to take care of them. They're alone, don't you understand that?"

"I need someone to take care of me and my needs!"

"I think there are plenty of people taking care of your 'needs'."

"What's that suppose to mean!"

"I don't know, why don't we ask the bloody neighbor?"

Mycroft swiftly clamped a hand over Sherlock's mouth, preventing him from adding in the other two he didn't know about.

"I have a better idea! Let's ask the blonde bloke from last night!"

"Do you listen to yourself talk? Are you really that desperate for an excuse?"

"I want you out of my house."

"Your house? When was the last time you had a job? You can't even bloody clean! All you do is bitch and moan and spend my money and fuck strangers! It's no wonder you don't want children! You would have the maternal instincts of a dinner plate!" There was silence and both boys held their breath for fear of being heard.

"I'm sorry." They all knew she wasn't being honest. "You're right. That's why I didn't want kids in the house."

"I know I'm right. That's why I want you to leave. Maybe you can go stay with the neighbor." Sherlock stumbled over his brother as they scrambled out of the way of the enraged woman. She glared down at them and both Holmes stared back definitely. That was not a good look, but surely she wouldn't do anything when her husband was a Detective Inspector.

"Boys," Lestrade said quickly, motioning them toward him. Sherlock crawled onto the couch rather pleased with the happenings. Mycroft was sure that was a bad look. He sat beside on the other side of Lestrade and watched the hallway with apprehensive eyes. The older man patted them on the head gently.

"You're suppose to be sleeping. It's early."

"I was hungry." Sherlock murmured softly.

"She screams like a whale." Mycroft scoffed.

"Yeah. Okay,"

"Okay." The little Holmes murmured, trying to comfort the older man.

"Okay." Mycroft repeated, though he didn't understand why the word made anything better. Greg smiled.

"Breakfast, then. I'll make some eggs." He sat up, leaving the couch to tense up again and the boys to huddle together habitually. He turned on the tv, taking a moment to find a murder mystery to amuse them. It didn't, but neither of them complained. Lestrade watched them from over the counter as he went about making a bit of breakfast. He could heard his wife throwing things around in their room and, to his displeasure, breaking things. His things, he was sure.

"I don't understand. If someone was murdered, shouldn't they be taking them in for questioning?" Sherlock mused. Mycroft wasn't interested in the tv.

"Who did it?"

"It's not real, Sherlock. Whoever they say did it." Mycroft explained. It was a conversation they'd had before. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't understand it wasn't real, he just didn't understand that whatever 'clues' there were had nothing to do with the plot and was most likely an easily over looked mistake during the shoot. This was why he tried to keep his little brother away from the tv.

"I'm leaving." Mrs. Lestrade said pointedly.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out." Mycroft whispered under his breath. She hadn't even given them a chance. Not that he needed her to try and take care of them in the first place. Apparently he was louder than he thought, for she turned on him instantly, spooking poor Sherlock.

"What did you say?" She demanded in her whale voice.

"He said," Lestrade said firmly. "Don't let the door hit you on the way out." He followed her out, making sure he took back the house key, and giving little care to where she went. Both the boys were watching him when he returned. It was actually a little sweet that they were worried about him.

"Come on. Let's have some breakfast."

o-o-o-o-o

"So you finally kicked her out?" Lestrade had not called John Watson back to his house. In fact, he hadn't thought about it at all. Sherlock, however, had other ideas and was still a great pickpocket. He had thought it was a little strange when the little boy had suddenly wanted a hug. Sure enough John, being a good hearted person he was, came by without question. After a short conversation about stealing things, Lestrade decided there was no harm in having the other man over. Sherlock was very taken with him, after all.

"The neighbor came to return her wedding ring viva the bedroom window." Greg scoffed. Sherlock was playing the violin before the little fire place in the living room, admittedly badly. Mycroft seemed physically hurt and confused by the sound, but did his best to help his brother get better. Lestrade wasn't sure if he could.

"I'm sorry." The doctor apologized in an attempt to comfort him.

"It was a long time coming." Lestrade shrugged casually. He wasn't all that broken up about it. It'd gotten to the point where they rarely even had meals together for one reason or another. Perhaps they had wanted the same thing at one point, but that obviously faded away a long time ago. The violin stopped suddenly and Mycroft let a sigh slip out. The two men glanced at little Sherlock, who very well looked as if he had confused himself with his noise.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"The serial killer," He murmured. "He's a woman."

"What? How do you know that?"

"Well, I smelled Hibiscus, but it wasn't from the flowers. I thought it was strange the first time, but even if she spent all her time in the shop, I don't think the smell would linger that long." Sherlock mused wearily. "It was strong, too. We were too far away for it to be a natural scent. It's a perfume. They sell it in the mall."

"That doesn't automatically mean it's a woman. Considering his size, it's more likely he's male."

"I know." The little boy answered indignantly. "Boys wear perfume. Just like girls marry girls, but," He paused, unsure of how to prove himself. He was positive it was a women. A masculine woman, but still. He knew it was there, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"I think he might be right." John nodded a little. "I didn't think much of it at the time, but the way he moved was very feminine. I've seen a lot of different kinds of people, but there was something about him." Lestrade shook his head. However, Sherlock had yet to steer him wrong.

"Alright. Fine. If that's the case, our suspect list got a whole lot smaller."


	4. Chapter 4

"Looks like you were right, Sherlock." Lestrade complimented the boy in his arms. Sherlock's arms held around his neck tightly, as if he were afraid to be dropped. He was a light thing, though, and it was unlikely that was going to happen. Mycroft followed close behind and John limped after them.

"We located her based on the description and she admitted to killing six people and attacking ten. No why, though. Ask her why and she flinches." He murmured before giving a look toward John. The blonde man nodded.

"That's her. The marks on her neck." He motioned

"Yeah. Burn marks. Medical records say she was in a fire last year. An explosion." Lestrade frowned with sorrow. "Records say it killed her entire family; her husband and both kids. It's likely she's gone mad." Sherlock watched the other side of the glass wearily, holding the older man's neck tighter.

"What's she eating?"

"What?"

"She bit on something." Sherlock insisted, raising his head up a little. Lestrade loosened his grip a little, slipping the young child back on the ground.

"I need a medic! She's seizing!" He yelped quickly. Sherlock hurried to cling to John's leg, completely unsure of what was going on. Mycroft grasped his hand tightly.

"Come on boys." John ushered them away quickly and back into their guardian's office. It was quiet for a while and the Holmes sat together in one chair. Sherlock was obviously trying to put together what had gone on, but didn't have enough information to finish the train of thought.

"What happened, Mr. Watson?" He finally brought himself to ask. The army man seemed to struggle with an answer for a moment.

"Well, Sherlock. You see, she was grieving over her family and didn't deal with those feelings very well. Since she knew she was caught and that she felt guilty about the crimes she committed, she decided to end things before they could convict her."

"Guilty for what?" Sherlock questioned curiously.

"Sherlock." Mycroft interjected quickly, but John took it in stride. No strange look or judgment or anything.

"Killing people is wrong, Sherlock. When you take a life, your conscious tells you it's wrong and you feel bad about it. Do you know what guilt is?" John asked calmly and simply. Sherlock had to think about it for a moment, his mind searching back on his memory.

"An awareness of having done something wrong accompanied by a feeling of shame and regret."

"Very good. How would you feel if you pushed your brother off a chair and made him forget what his own name was?" He explained. It took Sherlock another few moments to run the scenario through his mind. He glanced toward his brother with a frown. Mycroft wasn't sure if his little brother could completely grasp guilt.

"I would feel guilty." The younger Holmes admitted as if he had really done so.

"Exactly. And sometimes adults don't handle shame and regret very well and when you do something like she did, you take drastic measures. She," He hesitated again. "She killed herself. Which is never the answer no matter what, do you understand?"

"But Mycroft says there are no absolutes."

"This is an absolute, Sherlock. You, too, Mycroft." John said firmly. Neither boy argued and nodded in agreement. The older male gave them both a pat on the head.

"Someone will always help you if you ask."

"Well she's dead. Cyanide." Lestrade murmured as soon as he entered his office. He fell into his seat, the distant look of disappointment on his face.

"At least you caught your serial killer." John offered. The DI only nodded.

"Yeah. You were fantastic, Sherlock. Both of you were. We should start finding a permanent place for you to live. You boys need a family." With the threat of the serial killer gone, there was no need for the boys to stay with him. All three of them looked against it.

"They're not your sons?" John questioned with obvious disbelief.

"No." Lestrade shook his head with a small sigh. "They have no family and needed to be protected. It was purely temporary. God knows I can't take care of two little boys forever." Sherlock shook his head. He was panicking, that much was obviously. This was bad. He was starting to like Lestrade and he'd thought the man had liked them. Mycroft grasped at his arm tightly, as if it would calm him down. It didn't. They were going to put them in a home and they'd get separated and no one would love him!

"Calm down. You can't just leave them like that, Greg."

"It's been three days." The detective scoffed. He'd done his job. He made sure they were well taken care of and safe.

"It's been four." Mycroft corrected bitterly.

"These are not your average little boys. You can't just get rid of them like this."

"I can't take care of two little boys. I can't keep bringing them to work and god knows what they'd get up to in an actual school. I don't even want to attempt to find a nanny. They'd probably drive her mad."

"I'll help you." John persisted.

"So what happens when I'm in the middle of a case and you get called into work?"

"My new land lady, Mrs. Hudson will watch them." But Lestrade only shook his head again.

"They need a family John. A real family."

"I don't want a family!" Sherlock insisted loudly.

"We'll just run away." Mycroft assured him.

"No you won't. I would hate to have to put you in a military home." All three of them paled a little.

"You can't do that. They don't belong in that kind of setting." John knew what those families were life and neither of the Holmes boys would do well in a place like that. Not to mention Sherlock needed help, and hard 'love' would only make it worse.

"And they won't, as long as they stay with their family. I won't let them separate you. You'll be okay." Lestrade attempted to sooth their worried, but it didn't do much good.

"Why'd you be so nice to us then?" The older brother demanded. "Why'd you move us into your home?"

"I thought things were going to be different." He admitted.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock sobbed softly, though he didn't know what he was apologizing for. He must have done something wrong. He had to have.

"Sherlock,"

"I'll adopt them." John said swiftly. Greg frowned at him.

"You know you can't take care of them, either. Look at you." It wasn't meant to be an insult, but it was obviously taken as one. John scowled a little.

"There is nothing stopping me from adopting them."

"John," Greg said firmly. "You have to do what's best for them. They need a father and mother to give them all the attention in the world. Believe me, if I could, I would take care of you two forever. But I have a job and I can't let you go back to running around on your own." He'd worked hard his entire life for his job compared to the four days he'd taken care of the boys he barely knew. They couldn't go back on their own, either. It would only be a matter of time before they got into trouble. He knew what happened on the streets. They'd get kidnapped, or killed, or any number of things that he didn't want to think about.

"You need to think this out, Greg." John rose to his feet quickly, knocking his chair back in the process.

"John,"

"Come on, boys. Let's go for a walk."

It was silent. There was little that could be said, after all. Mycroft couldn't explain this to his brother. It wasn't 'adults being weird' it was Lestrade being cruel and while they were use to people turning away, this was completely different. The two Holmes trotted side by side, Mycroft holding Sherlock's hand tightly, and John followed behind them. A silent walk with no destination. Finally, Mycroft glanced back at the blonde man to say anything, to thank him, or beg him, anything, but John was nowhere to be found.

"Mr. Watson?" He called out anxiously. There was no response.

"Come on, Sherlock." He had barely managed to get his brother a few steps back the way they'd come when a cab pulled up beside them. The man inside grabbed a handful of Sherlock's collar and yanked him forward. Mycroft fought for him. He held Sherlock's hand steady, refusing to let him go. However, he was still only a child and the man shoved him away without a though.

Sherlock struggled a little, but knew that it would only make it worse. He heard a noise from his brother, a noise that should never came from a little boy, the noise of breaking bones. He was shoved into the passenger's seat, though Sherlock debating biting the man. He watched his kidnapper with a firm stare, but the older man didn't seem to notice. One hand on the wheel, he used the other to take up his phone. Sherlock could see the reflection in his glasses.

Moriarty.

"I got the little brat." He was right here. Sherlock was taking in everything. It was a strange feeling he hadn't felt before. It wasn't fear, though, certainly not. It was adrenalin. It was like the time Mycroft stepped in front of a bus by mistake and everything seemed to stop. He couldn't hear the other side of the phone, but it was obvious this wasn't the man he needed to be afraid of.

"You hurt my brother." Sherlock's wandering green eyes settled back on the cabbie. The man barely gave him a glance.

"He'll be fine."

"No he won't. You dislocated his shoulder and broke his wrist. He won't say anything because you've taken me and the adults won't notice. They don't notice a lot of things. He'll insist on coming along because he knows what your car looks like and he's seen the plates and Mr. Watson will come." Lestrade would only come because it was his job, Sherlock was sure. "He carries a gun, you know. Mr. Lestrade doesn't say anything about it. I wonder if he knows."

The man struck him in the face, admittedly not very hard, causing Sherlock to gnash his lip on his teeth. He turned away instantly, pressing his palm against the wound. That didn't stop him, though.

"I hope he shoots you. I hope you die." Sherlock didn't want his brother being hurt. He didn't like people messing with his family. Mycroft was all he had left.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Pain shot through his arm. Mycroft landed on his arm at an awkward angle, but he paid it no mind. He hurried to his feet, watching the numbers on the back of the cab that rushed off with his brother. Once they were committed to memory, he rushed back to find John. The man was laying in the alley way, unconscious but otherwise unharmed. Mycroft shook him with his good arm, tucking his broken wrist under his armpit to hide it from the world.

"Mr. Watson. Mr. Watson." The man didn't budge. He could smell it on his breath now. Chloroform. He'd be unconscious for a while, then. Mycroft immediately went through his pockets and locating his phone. He was glad Lestrade's number was already in it.

"John," The man said quickly.

"Mr. Lestrade. A cabbie took Sherlock."

Mycroft wasn't sure how long he'd waited for the cars to show up, though he could hear someone talking to him on the line. John was barely coming too, but thankfully just seemed to be sleeping. His arm was numb now and he was worried it would get worse if he didn't do anything about it, but they had to get Sherlock back first. He didn't even know why they'd taken him, but it couldn't be a good reason regardless.

"Mycroft," It was Sally. She kneeled beside him, but he still refused to release his hurt hand. "Are you okay?"

"Where's Mr. Lestrade?"

"He went after Sherlock. Everything will be fine." She assured him, though Mycroft was questioning any of their competence. John sat up suddenly and the older Holmes jerked away quickly. The little army man wasn't completely conscious yet, though panic had forced him upright only to swerve toward the ground again. Sally grabbed at his collar to keep him from bashing his head. He didn't stay down, though, forcing himself to his feet and using the wall to support himself.

"Mycroft?" He said quickly, vision swimming. The boy made a small noise to assure the man he was here.

"Sherlock?"

"A cabbie took him. Lestrade's on his tail right now."

"We have to go. Come on." Mycroft didn't find it strange that John was ready to jump into action immediately. Sally didn't argue. The little Holmes hurried after, fully expecting to be brought along. There wasn't any time to drop him off somewhere.

"This is officer Donavon. I have Watson and Holmes."

i"I need an ambulance."/i That was Lestrade. Mycroft's heart skipped a beat worriedly.

o-o-o-o-o-o

Sherlock glanced back pleasantly as police lights began to flash. He sat back smugly. Of course they'd come for him. Whether Lestrade liked him or not, he was still the Detective Inspector. The man scowled at him. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what was going through his head after that. The man drew a gun, but Sherlock knew it wasn't for him. He was planning on shooting Lestrade. Sherlock wasn't going to let that happen. What if John was with him? Or Mycroft!

As the cabbie took aim, Sherlock yanked on the wheel. The car turned quicker than he thought it would and the next second the entire car was tumbling. The only thing that kept him in his seat was his seat belt. Items threw around the confined space, something cut through his cheek, he smashed his forehead on the head board, there was blood, but he was safe.

"Sherlock!" The blood rushed to his head, but he managed to calm down. He was upside down. Great. Not for long, thankfully. The older man undid his seatbelt and he dropped into waiting arms. At once, he was brought into a suffocating hug.

"Oh thank god you're okay. You're okay, Sherlock." He breathed, taking a step away from the wreck and sitting on the curb.

"You are okay?" Lestrade questioned, cradling the smaller male. Sherlock offered a small nod.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't want anything to happen to you or Mycroft. I really don't. I'm sorry." He said again. Sherlock simply gave a huff of a breath. He hadn't realized it before, but his heart was going crazy in his chest and it was finally settling down.

"I'll make sure you're okay. I'll take care of you both. No matter what it takes." He wiped a little bit of the blood off his face and Sherlock flinched away a little. His radio buzzed and Lestrade hurriedly used one hand to call for an ambulance. Not for Sherlock, of course, but for the cabbie. He hadn't been as lucky as Sherlock, then again, he was a tiny thing. He'd have some bruises and cuts, but he was okay. God yes he was okay.

"Mycroft's hurt." Sherlock murmured finally. "When the man pushed him down he hurt his arm."

"We'll fix him up. Don't worry. Everything is going to be okay."

o-o-o-o-o

Sherlock had never liked hospitals, but he supposed this one time was okay. He sat close with his brother, careful to avoid the sling on his arm, much like the one John had worn. Mycroft would be in his for a lot longer, unfortunately, but he would be okay. Still a little nervous, Sherlock was sure everything was going to be okay, as Lestrade kept insisting. He could hear the two men discussing their arrangements.

"What did he want?" Little boy conversation, snuggling, hugging, sobbing; that wasn't for the Holmes. Sherlock wasn't shaken up and Mycroft wasn't permanently broken so there was no need for all of that. It was obvious the man was after Sherlock and only Sherlock. He hadn't even made an attempt at Mycroft and it had required extra work to get John out. They were both positive the man was simply waiting for them to get away from Lestrade.

Sherlock shook his head, playing with the edge of the bandage covering the slit on his face.

"He called someone. Moriarty." Lestrade dropped everything, which thankfully was nothing in his hand, and turned to the little boy at once.

"What did you say?"

"The cabbie. He called someone named Moriarty. I guess he didn't want to do it himself. Is that bad?" Lestrade didn't answer for a moment. When he was done thinking, he pointed to both boys.

"You two can't go outside anymore. In fact," He peeked over his shoulder as if a man was suddenly going to appear there. "You can't be in a room by yourselves anymore."

"That seems a little drastic."

"You have no idea."

o-o-o-o-o-o

The next few days were relatively quiet. Lestrade was completely serious about not letting the boys out of his sight. He'd always spare them a glance every few minutes and when it had been longer than he wanted, would make himself uneasy and jerk around to find them. Sherlock was smart enough not to wander off while he was on edge, which unfortunately meant the days were long boring and full of school work. Mycroft was doing his best not to show his annoyance, but his broken arm was getting the best of him. Though he knew it was broken, he continued to try and use it with less than pleasing results.

"U-n-i-n-t-e-r-e-s-t-i-n-g. Adjective. Not interesting; boring." Sherlock spelled blandly, kicking his feet in and out from under his seat.

"Frustrating." Mycroft sat awkwardly with his cheek on the table, trying not to make himself uncomfortable or move his wrist out of place.

"F-r-u-s-t-r-a-t-i-n-g. Verb. Prevent from doing or achieving something."

"How 'bout dramatic?" Lestrade insisted, though he had yet to take his eyes off the screen.

"D-y-i-n-g. Adjective. About to die; on the point of death." Sherlock groaned.

"Alright. Alright. John will be here soon and we can go get some lunch, okay?" He assured the boys. Sherlock sat up at once, more than happy to be out of this room. He knew everything about this room! He wanted out; now.

"Remember,"

"Don't let you out of our sight." Mycroft murmured in a way that didn't entirely tell how tired he was of this.

"And don't stray." Sherlock finished, bouncing anxiously in his seat.

"Sir, someone just dropped this off." Sally poked her head in. She and the boys typically ignored each other. Lestrade insisted that if they couldn't say anything nice, they should leave her alone, and it was working so far. She trudged between the chairs, both Holmes watching her curiously as she set the envelope down.

"It's safe." She assured him. "Scanned it and everything. It's for Sherlock." Her eyes strayed to the young boy immediately. "Watson's here." Lestrade motioned her out.

"Thank you." He murmured with little interest. Sally watched him for a moment, obviously unhappy that she was being left out, but Lestrade paid her no mind. Instead, his eyes fell on Sherlock suspiciously. The little boy simply stared back in mild curiosity. He certainly hadn't done this. He hadn't done much of anything with Lestrade watching him like a hawk. He examined the envelope for himself, but had no plans to hand it over. The boys watched him closely.

John picked Sherlock up out of the chair, seating himself and settling the boy in his lap.

"What is it?"

"It's a phone." Lestrade plucked the object from the envelope, examining it cautiously.

"That's like-" Mycroft began, but his words mangled in his throat against his will.

"It's like Mummy's phone." Sherlock finished. "Was like Mummy's phone." He corrected himself heartlessly.

"This is your mother's phone?"

"No." The older Holmes shook his head. "It just looks like her phone."

It rang.

"Blocked number."

"Answer it." Sherlock insisted eagerly, his interest official peaked. Lestrade's worry was almost concrete. Never the less, he answered. For a moment, there was silence. Then a laugh.

"DI Lestrade," The phone said cheerily. It wasn't a voice Sherlock had heard before. "Nosy, nosy. I do believe I addressed the envelope to little Sherlock."

"He's five." Lestrade responded firmly.

"Ooh, I guess he is." The voice cooed.

"What do you want?"

"Come now, Gregy. We both know the answer to that. I want Sherlock."

"For what?" The detective demanded. "He's just a little boy."

"We both know that's not true." The man laughed again. "He has all the building blocks to be a perfect little psychopath. I have the papers right here. You should really do something about your file keeping. Lack of empathy! Oh, little Sherlock doesn't realize how upset his brother is, how worried he is and he knows it, don't you Sherlock? You mimic your older brother in an attempt to understand, and you do understand, you simply don't feel the same."

Sherlock glanced toward his brother a little, but Mycroft was more interested in glaring down Lestrade. The man had been taking notes on Sherlock. He was the only one that could. Mycroft would never allow anyone to analyze his brother professionally.

"Shallow emotions: Sherlock could care less where his father is and his mother's death flew right over his head. Lying and manipulating: They somehow survived without you for years, didn't they DI? Pick pocketing was too simple, too easily caught and if you were caught, then they'd take you away."

"That was different." Mycroft demanded. Sherlock motioned him to be quiet.

"Oh, he's still too young for Semantic aphasia and perhaps impulsive, but that car crash was no accident, was it? You could have been seriously hurt, but that didn't occur to you. You needed results and you needed results instantly." Lestrade's eyes wandered to the young male. It hadn't occurred to him that the crash had been caused by Sherlock. He had simply been happy he was okay.

"Low tolerance for boredom. That needs no example. Poor behavior control; How long until that forms? Remorselessness; I suppose your brother has managed to keep that under control, hasn't he? You take a step in the wrong direction and he yanks you back before you can do any real damage. And my favorite; Intelligence. Five years old and already so intelligent and here's the proof." There was a moment of silence, but Sherlock was already glancing out to the work force cluelessly working as usual.

"You've been poisoned, Sherlock Holmes." The phone taunted. Lestrade was on his feet at once.

"Sherlock." John didn't know what to do. Sherlock certainly didn't seem worried at all, though his heart beat echoed in his ears. No, it wasn't fear. It was a good feeling, he decided.

"One of your precious little worker bees did it, Gregy. Which one was it? Let Sherlock figure it out on his own. We wouldn't want anything bad to happen." The voice warned. Sherlock turned away from the indoor window and simply stared at the phone, but he made no movement to do as he was told.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said hurriedly. Sherlock simply motioned him to be silent. Minutes passed by and the tension in the room grew thicker. John anxiously stroked the curly locks as if it would help the little boy thing.

"Aw. Perhaps I was wrong. Time's running out, Sherlock." Still, the young boy made no move to do anything. In fact, he went about toying with the button on his coat without a care in the world.

"Can you feel it? Your chest tightening. Hurry, Sherlock." Minutes passed by, but nothing happened. The voice was quiet. Then there was a cackle.

"Smart indeed. You didn't actually drink it, did you?" Sherlock didn't respond. A panic began outside the office as one of the officers, someone Lestrade had known for years, hit the floor.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said slowly. The voice laughed again.

"You sneaky little bastard." It was a complimented. Sherlock gingerly handed over the syringe he had pick pocketed and Lestrade was out of the office in a heartbeat.

"I believe I've made my point. We'll be meeting soon, Sherlock." Then the line went dead.


	5. Chapter 5

Author Note: Thank you all for all your reviews and alerts and favorites. Much appreciated and help me write more. c: I do apologize for spelling and grammar errors. I don't have anyone to check and I'm a speed reader. I'll skip over entire paragraphs, even when correcting. Bad habit. Enjoy~

o-o-o-o-o-o

"What did you do, Sherlock?" The army man ordered in a very gentle sort of way. Sherlock knew he demanded an answer, but he wasn't sure he wanted to give one. Not if it would get him in trouble. They were watching him now, though. They really hadn't seen it. Well Mycroft had, obviously, and he knew his brother would tell them if he didn't and he'd probably get it wrong. Mycroft usually had no interest in proving himself. Sherlock averted his eyes from John to Greg and back again. He didn't understand how they couldn't see it.

"That man had never spoken a word to me before. Not even a smile or a good morning. A lot of people here are completely indifferent to Mycroft and me. He was wearing gloves today. Leather gloves. He never wears gloves, even when it's cold and it wasn't even cold today, so it's obvious he doesn't want to get something on his skin. He kept watching me all day, only when he thought I wasn't looking, so it wasn't strange when he finally approached me. Of course Lestrade didn't pay any mind, he's worked here for years. Divorced, gets the kids on the weekends. There was no need to be suspicious of him. He gave me some biscuits. Not homemade, but self bagged. I've seen them before in the store, they don't come powdered. I took some gloves from Anderson when he passed by. I politely thanked him for the snack with a cup of coffee."

John nodded. He could fill in the rest. Sherlock was five, of course the man didn't think he was returning the favor. Lestrade's head dropped. They were disappointed in him. Sherlock wasn't sure why, though. The man had tried to poison him simply because someone had asked him to. It wasn't like he was going to let him die. Killing people was wrong. Even if they did deserve it.

"Never do that again." Lestrade warned. "Next time, let me know and I'll do something about it."

"Yes, Mr. Lestrade." Sherlock knew things would only get worse from here, though. It was abundantly clear this Moriarty fellow was willing to go to great lengths to get a hold of him. Just how long would Lestrade be able to keep him at bay? The very idea that he had been watching them long before Lestrade picked them up was a little unnerving.

"Am I a psychopath?" The young Holmes finally murmured, worry fading into his voice. The DI looked at him again and hesitated. Sherlock took that as a 'yes'.

"You're still young, Sherlock. You can't be a psychopath."

"Medically, you have to be eighteen or older." John assured him.

"Yes." Mycroft added plainly. "You are most likely a psychopath."

"Mycroft!" Lestrade yelped swiftly. He would never have thought the older boy would agree. He seemed very set on telling Sherlock there wasn't anything wrong with him. Sherlock frowned. He'd sooner take his brother's word over that of the adults.

"All of those things were true, everything Moriarty said, and Sherlock knows it." Mycroft sighed softly bringing pale blue eyes to Sherlock's green. "That's not automatically a bad thing." Ever since Sherlock began to show signs of being mentally ill, Mycroft had done research on it. No matter how hard he tried, though, they wouldn't go away. He had to realize that his brother was not a dog and this illness couldn't just be trained out of him. In fact, he was sure his pushing made it worse. He had no idea what to do, but neither did the adults. He knew they didn't, because they didn't hesitate in going along with him.

"He's right. It's not a death sentence." Lestrade instantly wished he would have picked better words. Sometimes he did forget Sherlock was only five. "You're not a psychopath. You're a sociopath." Both Holmes gave him an extraordinary look. They both knew there was no difference in the two besides how they were viewed.

"Exactly," John swiftly agreed. "Psychopaths kill and hurt people for no reason."

"You were just trying to protect yourself." The detective assured him. Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. He was trying to protect his family the first time; the cabbie had no intentions of hurting him, that much was clear. Plus, it wasn't like he had planned on him to die in the crash, though Sherlock wasn't complaining. Not to mention that was incredibly wrong. He had lots of Encyclopedias, he was sure he would know if there was a difference.

"They're right." Mycroft steeled their words. Sherlock's look swerved toward him in confusion. What?

"But like I said, you're five." Lestrade reminded him. "None of this is important right now. What's important is that we need to keep you safe. If Moriarty is after you, he's not going to give up so easily." He didn't want to discuss Sherlock's mental state. There was no need to. He'd most likely grow out of it, anyways, as long as they didn't make it any worse.

"I'm not in any danger, though. He doesn't want to hurt me."

"We don't know that. He's a dangerous criminal."

"Weren't you listening? He said building blocks. He wants to help me." Sherlock hesitated on the word. It wouldn't be 'helping' to say, but he wasn't about to kill him, or any other unsavory thought he didn't want to think much about.

"He wants to make you a monster." Mycroft corrected.

"I'm not going to let him do that to you." Lestrade said firmly. It was strange for Sherlock, knowing there was someone who openly and honestly was trying to protect him. He knew Mycroft protected him, but not openly. He just hovered around like a bumper, keeping him out of trouble and Sherlock trotted after him without a care. He never would have thought someone would take so much attention in him, in any way.

Sherlock wasn't going to let anyone ruin his new little family.

o-o-o-o-o

It wasn't just a skill anymore. It was a game. It was a game Sherlock needed to take more seriously, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was like when Mycroft tried to teach him history. He understood it but it floated out the back of his mind without a care. It was hard to focus on much of anything when he could see everything. He would never understand how people could pass each other on the street and not know a thing about each other. They were all puzzle pieces. How could people live without a full picture? Sherlock found it frustrating when he couldn't connect pieces alone and yet everyone else just walked on without a care.

"Sherlock?" He turned away from the window glancing toward his brother first, then the source of his name with wide eyes. John looked at him worriedly and again, Sherlock wasn't sure why. They were worried about him needlessly. He wasn't in any real danger. This man didn't have it out to kill him, just kidnap him and apparently train him to be a killer. Sherlock was more worried about them. If they stood between Moriarty and him; He didn't want to think about it.

"Are you sure you're alright?" The little army man questioned him for the fourth time. Sherlock had counted. He simply nodded and returned his look to his chips. He knew his brother was fretting over him, too, but for a completely different reason. Perhaps the police were mildly incompetent when it came to things like this, but Mycroft couldn't worry about that. If worse came to worse, Sherlock would simply have to go. Mycroft had always been prepared to be separated from his brother. He was more vexed about Sherlock's mind. He was young and intelligent, but that didn't mean his mind was ready for something like this.

How long until he simply stopped? How long until he couldn't do it anymore? Mycroft had always been more than pleased with his brother's ability to take in everything and even push himself to prove that he was right. The older Holmes couldn't be arsed to prove himself right even when he knew he was. He couldn't turn it off, and neither could Sherlock, but he could drown it out; focus it. He wasn't sure Sherlock could. Mycroft hadn't taught him that yet.

"There's a man watching us in a car over there." Sherlock murmured between bites. "He's not with that man. He's not professional." Lestrade moved to get up, but Mycroft hurriedly grabbed a handful of his shirt.

"Don't. It's too late, anyways." The older brother explained blandly. He could tell Lestrade was on edge. He was suspicious of everyone. If he couldn't trust a man he'd known for years how could he trust anyone else? It was surprising that suspicion didn't spread to John, though. Still, Mycroft saw no faults with the blonde man.

"You should probably stay at mine for a while. It's closer and hopefully he doesn't know about it." It would be a long shot, but anything to make them feel a little safer.

"Empty bedroom and everything." Lestrade seemed against the idea but after a bit of thought, he slowly nodded. Mycroft knew it didn't matter where they were. This wasn't hide-and-seek. Leaving Mycroft alone in his office wasn't exactly a good idea and neither was making his computer password so predictable. He'd seen the files. The serial killer was a test, too. Right before she died she scratched Moriarty's name into the table. Mycroft could put together the rest. It wasn't any wonder Lestrade panicked and yet he refused to tell them the full story.

"I'll change the locks, install some better windows," Greg continued. Not that it mattered, Mycroft knew. There were very few locks that stood up to Sherlock and he was sure there was no lock that would stand up against this Moriarty. Even now, they didn't even think to ask him, or even Sherlock for that matter. On the other hand, rightfully so. Given the chance, Sherlock would do something stupid. They'd wandered the streets for an entire year and hadn't escaped unharmed.

He knew his brother to be reckless when danger was involved. Those were small dangers, though. Sherlock couldn't tell the difference and that by itself was dangerous. There was nothing they could do at the moment except wait. Mycroft would just have to wait until they had something solid.

He glanced toward his brother and Sherlock swiftly looked away. He didn't want to and he wouldn't. Mycroft promised he would never have to. Mycroft frowned.

They returned to the office, Sherlock and Mycroft hand in hand with an adult on either side. It was an unconscious attempt to keep them safe, which helped them feel safe, but not the boys. Donavon, who had already been unsure of both boys, was now officially freaked out by little Sherlock and had no quarrels with displaying it. Sherlock chose to ignore her. It wasn't any of her business.

The remainder of the day was quiet. John quietly examined the floor outside the office and both boys attempted to continue school work. It was a little difficult focusing knowing that any or all of the other officers might make another attempt on their lives. Lestrade called an examination of all of the officers, but Mycroft doubted he would find anything. It seemed unlikely there would be anyone else and if there was, they were long gone.

They were glad to leave, even if it was to a new place. 221b Baker Street was a decent place. It was small, but cozy and nice. Mrs. Hudson was nice, too, and even brought up a bit of biscuits and tea. Unfortunately, none of them ate them for the weary of events earlier. Surely she wasn't, but there was no telling anymore. John showed them the extra room and left them to examine it.

"You've been really nice to the boys. Thank you." Greg offered a small smile to the man on his knees, tending to the fire. John chuckled softly.

"They're very special children, you know. And he was right, without the right hand, Sherlock will go down the wrong path. I know what happens to people like that and you do, too. But I also know that he can be so much more. One day he could be a good man."

"He wants to be a pirate." Lestrade laughed. John took up the seat across from him, patting off his knees.

"That's a surprise. I would have suspected something," The blonde admitted with a comfortable smile.

"More intellectual?" The detective smiled a little. It was good to know there was a least a little part of Sherlock that was still five.

"Yeah. He's still a little boy, I suppose. No matter how smart."

There was a yelp from upstairs and both men were on their feet at once. It was Mycroft's voice! Both men rushed up the stairs, ready to defend. Thankfully, it wasn't another attack. No, Sherlock had a crop and Mycroft had his good hand in his mouth. Lestrade didn't even want to know what had happened. He quickly moved to tend to Mycroft's sore hand.

"Sherlock. Why did you hit your brother with that?" John hurriedly took the ridding crop away from him. Sherlock frowned.

"It was an accident." He insisted. He had no idea what it was and Mycroft just happened to be in the way. He didn't know it would hit him and that it would hurt. Mycroft did not look happy. John sighed.

"Apologize."

"I'm sorry Mycroft." Sherlock uttered reluctantly. He hardly saw how it was his fault. Mycroft had been in the way. "What is it, anyways?"

"It's a riding crop for when you ride horses." John explained. Greg turned a curious look on him and the boys did the same.

"Then why do you have one."

"I- I don't." The blonde man examined the item in his hands. That wasn't just a lie to keep the boys from prying into his life, either. He'd never owned a crop in his life. He didn't exactly have a use for one, after all. Of course, his second thought was Mrs. Hudson but he quickly expelled that from his mind.

"Where did you find this?"

"It was under the bed." The little Holmes explained, motioning toward the bare bed as if to make his point.

"It's Mrs. Adler's." He continued.

"Who is Mrs. Adler, Sherlock?" Lestrade questioned worriedly.

"I don't know. It's on the side. Irene Adler." He pointed to the silver engraving on the side of the leather handle. Sure enough, there it was. Sherlock wasn't sure who she was, but it didn't look like she'd been here in a while. There was an air of her perfume, but it was since long faded.

"That sounds very familiar." The detective mused on the name for a moment. John could offer no help. Sherlock glanced toward the door. It was too high up for her to have used the window. She'd simply walked right in. It wasn't as safe here as they thought, but Sherlock wouldn't mention it. He was right, then. Moriarty wouldn't do his dirty work himself. Adults were strange indeed. He needed to watch more television.

"I'll find out who it is, just in case."

o-o-o-o-o

Irene Adler. Aka The Woman. Aka dominatrix. Sherlock hadn't the foggiest idea what that was, but it sounded unpleasant. That was two weeks ago, though. Nothing happened and eventually, Lestrade relaxed and the days went on. Sherlock didn't know why he decided it was okay to assume that Moriarty had given up or that there was nothing strange with finding an engraved crop in John's spare bedroom, but still, he didn't say a word. As long as he didn't put down his guard, they wouldn't get him. Or perhaps he wanted them to get him.

Sherlock toyed with the thought for a few days. He pondered the thought of making his skill useful and pondered the thought of what Moriarty really wanted. Of course, he came to the conclusion that he didn't like people pushing him in any direction especially people that didn't care about his family. Mycroft's arm was healing slowly, but it still made Sherlock upset. The cabbie was dead, sure, but it wasn't his fault alone.

Still, his focus wandered. Maybe telly was bad for him. John insisted he focused on his school work, but it was dull and easy and he had no desire to work on it. He wanted to watch the people. He had to watch the people. They were all after him, after all. All of them. Maybe not for the same reasons, but it was obvious. They wanted to put him away, take him away; they wanted to be rid of him. Sometimes he was sure he saw it in Lestrade and John, too. Sometimes in his brother. He was paranoid, he knew, but he didn't know why, and therefore, didn't actually know.

Then they left. It was so precise that it could only have been on purpose. Lestrade was called out to help one of the younger officers, John exited the room to answer a phone call from his current girlfriend, Mycroft slept away quietly in the chair, awkwardly protecting his wounded wrist with his hand. Sherlock glanced toward Lestrade's desk as it buzzed. Without a care, he trudged around to answer the blocked call on what he could only call his phone.

"Sherlock Holmes," It was a different voice. A feminine voice. "Why don't we go out for a treat? I'm waiting." So he left. No one noticed him, he doubted they wanted to. Outside waited the rather young looking woman. For a split moment, his mind drew a blank. She looked so familiar, but Sherlock couldn't place it. It was gone in a second, though. He'd never seen her before in his life. She held out her hand and Sherlock took it quietly then they went for ice cream.

It was very domestic, Sherlock had to say. She didn't say much, she was too busy examining him. He couldn't say he wasn't doing the same. She wasn't working for Moriarty, that much was obvious. She was trying to get on his good side. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't like she was going to kidnap him right in the middle of everywhere. There were any amount of cameras on the way over. She refused to look at them, but he didn't.

"You're Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes."

"I was expecting someone older." So she had no idea what she was doing. She had a name and a number. This was testing the waters and Sherlock was letting her. She was no harm to him.

"I know."

"I suppose I can't seduce a five year old." Irene plucked at the nearly nonexistent collar of her shirt. She buttoned it up again. Sherlock paid her little mind. Adults really were weird. He had no idea why men found women attracted. Or any variation of so. It was necessary for the population, of course, but Sherlock just didn't understand. Telly helped with that, at least. It was surprisingly accurate when it came to adults and relationships and the like. Well, at least when John was involved.

"You must be something special."

"What's a dominatrix?" He wasn't interested in her stupidity. She was stepping in the middle of something she had no business being in. Irene laughed.

"It's a woman who knows what people like." She smirked, but Sherlock wasn't amused. He continued with his ice cream, paying her little to no mind. Lestrade would be missing him soon. John was already panicking. Mycroft was probably thinking of ways to silently scold him. It wasn't like he was hurting anyone. Free ice cream!

"So you sell yourself for money."

"It's not that simple."

"I think it is." Sherlock scoffed.

"I see why he likes you."

"It's time for me to go back. Any longer and we risk the chance of you being shot." The little Holmes warned, knowing full well Lestrade's tension was going to sky rocket at his disappearance. It wouldn't take them long to search him out and take care of whoever it was had taken him. She hadn't, Sherlock came freely, but questions would be saved for after PAVA and possibly a violent beating. It wouldn't be boring, but Sherlock would save that for another time.

"Shot?" She laughed. "By who? You're little pretend daddy?"

"By my doctor."

Irene didn't dare trudge all the way back to the station. She left him around the corner, where he could already see people out looking for him, and disappeared. Sherlock returned as quietly as he had come, not even trying to slip under radar, but even when looking for him, they seemed to overlook him. Sally was the only one to take real note of him and quickly called Lestrade. He paid her as much mind as he usually did, though, and continued back to the waiting office.

John physically relaxed, holding the bottom half of his face and laughing away his stress. Sherlock simply climbed back into his seat, pulled his work into his lap, and continued on his chemistry work. Mycroft glared at him. John didn't bother asking any questions; Sherlock wouldn't lie, but he wouldn't speak either. It was another ten minutes before Lestrade returned, out of breath. He'd been out looking, obviously, but Sherlock didn't feel guilty. He had nothing to feel guilty for. It wasn't his fault they jumped into things and it wasn't his fault they let him walk out so easily.

"Sherlock," The man breathed. The young boy peeked over his shoulder as if he'd been here the whole time.

"Don't you dare do that again!" The commanding father voice. Sherlock found it was useful to assign labels to things. He'd never had to do so with Mycroft, things usually already had labels with him, but things were different with the out of place adults. Under normal circumstances, neither Greg nor John had any business being in his life. Of course, the thought only made Sherlock even more unsure of his choice. Moriarty was more natural to his life style but more dangerous to his health in the future.

"Yes, Mr. Lestrade." Lestrade gave his head a small stroke and Sherlock smiled.

o-o-o-o-o

Another week went by before there was another phone call from another blocked number. This one was at home, though. Their father and, well, what they were coming to regard as their other father, were cooking. Neither brother referred to the adults as their 'father' out loud for many reasons, though if anyone were to ask either boy 'where is your dad' they would referrer to DI Lestrade and Doctor Watson respectively.

Thankfully, Lestrade was wrong about Sherlock and his violin. He wasn't good by any means, but certainly better. Once he realized it helped him to think, he was much fonder of practicing. The repetitive task cleared his mind and the noise drowned out everything else. He was sure once he got better, it would be a much more pleasant noise of drowning out. The noise still physically confused Mycroft.

He heard the phone over his own noise and when he stopped Lestrade heard it too. He dropped everything to answer the strange little phone. Sherlock assumed it was for many reasons. Perhaps because Moriarty was confident enough to tell them before he showed his face. Perhaps because Lestrade was worried something bad would happen if he didn't. Sherlock wasn't worried. He gently set his violin down and approached the table with his brother on his heels.

"Aw. Why'd you stop playing? I was really starting to get use to it." The voice teased. Moriarty again, though only Sherlock was expecting otherwise.

"What do you want now?" Lestrade demanded. Sherlock could just feel them all thinking, trying to source everything they'd eaten, and it was annoying. He wouldn't pull the same trick twice.

"Oh. Nothing." The phone laughed. That wasn't a good laugh.

"I do have something of yours, though." Sherlock quickly glanced about, but was relieved to find that they were all still here. What could he possibly have?

"Oh. You didn't even notice. Mrs. Lestrade really isn't happy." Moriarty laughed again. "Honestly. She just can't be pleased. I bought her nice new jacket and everything. I guess she's not a big fan of C-4." Lestrade instantly dropped his head. Mycroft attempted not to say anything, but it was very difficult.

"Stupid whale."

"Come on, then, Sherlock. Time for another game. There's a lot more at risk than the little Mrs. Lestrade. She was so unhappy with my little gift I sent her to the mall. You probably aren't interested in any of this, poor little Sherlock, but you're interested in your false little distorted family, aren't you? They'll be awfully disappointed if you let all those people die." Sherlock glanced between the three and their anxious looks. Of course they would be disappointed, but they wouldn't blame him if he couldn't do it. No, they'd just never look him in the eye again.

"This has gone too far." Lestrade demanded. Moriarty only laughed.

"If you won't give him to me, I'll take him, DI. But if I'm going to go to such lengths, I might as well make sure he's well worth it."

"What is it?" Sherlock intervened once he'd made his decision.

"Oh. I like you. Always ready to play. I like this game. Two trains are on the same track traveling towards each other. Both passenger trains. Turn on the news." John didn't hesitate to grapple for the remote, the telly already positioned to Mycroft's favorite news channel and Sherlock's least favorite everything.

_". . . These two trains are rushing full speed towards one another and there seems to be little anyone can do to stop them. It is unconfirmed how many passengers there are and . . ." _

"Oh god," John covered his mouth in the same sort of worry he always did. It was a nervous habit, it seemed.

"These aren't just any trains, you know. Each one is full of passengers. Very important passengers. 010607 is carrying the prime minister. Don't even get me started on how difficult it was to get him on the train. 111405 is carrying two of the Queen's offspring. Surprisingly easy to get them. You may save one, Sherlock. No matter what, someone's going to die, but who do you save?"

Silence flooded the room at once. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure who any of those people were, which was why he didn't mention names, but he knew they were important. He glanced toward his brother, who sure enough, was already showing signs of fretting. He showed no signs of which one would be better off, but Sherlock didn't need to know. It had nothing to do with the trains and nothing to do with the people. He highly doubted they were on board, anyways.

It was a couple minutes before Sherlock gathered his thoughts completely. It seemed a little easy, surely Mycroft had already seen. If it was too easy, then he must have done something wrong, but he hadn't. He knew he hadn't.

"Neither of the trains have any people on them." He finally murmured. Moriarty laughed.

"Oh, are you sure? We wouldn't want them both to die."

"Yes." He supposed, even if he was telling the truth, it would be a while before there were any results. A little bit of showing off hadn't hurt anything so far and it got people to pay attention to him. The good kind of attention. Sherlock was quickly mixing the line between the two, though.

"Neither of them are passenger trains. Well, they are, but not for real people." Sherlock explained plainly. "They're toy trains." Admittedly very good toys, but toys none the less. So, yes, he doubted they were actually in the trains. "And very good camera angles. This channel, it's not actually the news. It's typically easier to abduct newscasters. She'd obviously frightened out of her mind, but knows if she doesn't act you'll kill her." He played with the edges of the phone, waiting for a response. He received another laugh, which he took as a sign that he did good.

"Fantastic!"

"That was easy."

"If this were real, which one would you have picked to save, Sherlock?" The little boy hesitated a moment.

"111405."

"Why?" Now he was just torturing him. Not that Sherlock expected anything more. He was a very cruel man.

"They're our birthdays. Mycroft and mine."

"You're brother's going to be a problem, isn't he? Or leverage. We'll find out. Come fetch your little ex-wife and the newscaster, if you can find her." And the line went dead.

"That was brilliant, Sherlock. It really was." John complimented. Sherlock basked the praise, but only for a moment. Lestrade was already to work on calling the department.

"Do you know where she is?"

"She's under the grocery." He murmured confidentially. He wouldn't say so out loud, they would probably admonish him for it, but this was sort of fun. He had to spend all his time cooped up in a small room where he knew everything. Moriarty tested his ability. It also posed a split between him and his brother. Mycroft was emotionally rattled. He wouldn't show it, but he was. He was a vengeful little Holmes, like the rest of their family, but his spite was calculated and cold. He'd hold onto it for months before striking back. In reality, it could be years before he finally snuck under and pulled the floor out from beneath his unsuspecting victim's feet.

Sherlock had little use for revenge. There was little anyone could do to disturb him, but when they did, it was fast and heartless. There was no point in wasting time drawing things out. It wasted no one's time but his own. What use would it do to talk the cabbie into a mild depression and risk being struck again? It certainly wouldn't have stopped him from firing his weapon. In the end, using Mycroft as leverage would be Moriarty's downfall, but the end was a long way away.


	6. Chapter 6

Note: Okay. I'll admit it. I have no idea where this is going and never have. . . So. . . Yeah. Probably about two to three more chapters. Jim and his curse words in this chapter.

o-o-o-o-o

Sherlock was dreaming. Actually, it wasn't dreaming. It wasn't a nightmare by any means, but he definitely wasn't a dream. It was more like time to sort his thoughts, time to explore his palace. It was huge, even though he was already so young. He wandered the halls as easily as he wandered the streets of London. In fact, they were set up much like the streets of London. There were all kinds of rooms and all kinds of information and he took the time to sort them.

There were small pieces of information that weren't useful, but he thought one day they might be. Little ticks of information he picked up off handedly. There are more stars than there are people on planet earth. Useless; burn. Paint is a science and the pigments will lead you straight to the artist. Duplicate; burn. Everyone has a tick. That goes in the safety boxes. So, Sherlock takes the little note and he folds it up neatly and he takes it to the special room with walls and walls of safety deposit boxes. They aren't real, so it doesn't matter that physically it was impossible. He opens one up, settles the lone piece of information inside, and locks it up tight.

No matter how many locks he puts on, though, sometimes they simply disappear out of thin air. He knows because every so often, he'll find a little empty locked box. Some of it really is useless information, but it doesn't matter. It scares Sherlock. If these can simply disappear what's stopping the rest of his palace from vanishing into thin air? He keeps it to himself, though. No one else would understand. Mycroft didn't understand. Mycroft's palace had doors that he never opened. There weren't bad things in there. It was simply information that he didn't need and wouldn't look at, but it was there, just in case.

There were all kinds of rooms in Sherlock's palace. There were important rooms, like Mycroft's. The room was just packed with everything he knew about his brother. Images that never left his mind and clips of memory that always ran and forever would. Sometimes it was just one that was at the front of his mind, though.

_What do you want to be when you grow up, Mycroft?_

_Mycroft didn't answer immediately. He looked around them. He looked to the man who struck his children, to the woman that stole identities from old people, to the murderer walking with his head high, the thief in the shadows, and their own reflection in the restaurant window: The children scrapping together a living in a world that over looked them._

_I want to be the man that pull all the strings. He said, but Sherlock heard the unsaid words._

_The most dangerous man in the world. _

There were rooms for Lestrade and John, too. All their little habits and their signs of love and affection. They were small rooms, but they were dominating the north side of the palace fast. There were rooms for his real family, too. His mother's room sat in the basement where she lay in bed all day and every so often would coo to him and pat his head and tell him something she'd thought of. Sherlock knew all of the stories; she'd told them all to him before she passed. There was a room for his father, who had disappeared after his mother got pregnant with him. It was a small room, dark and damp, and he didn't have a lot to put in it. No one ever spoke of his father.

Then there were rooms that he was still building. Rooms like Moriarty's where puzzle pieces lay spread over the floor. They were all white and he had a feeling they didn't all belong to the same puzzle. He didn't have a face to put to the voice, which unnerved Sherlock. Sometimes the room would simply laugh at him, say his name as if it were the last thing he'd hear. He knew Moriarty wasn't going to hurt him, but if he was planning to make him into a monster, as Mycroft said, then who would he really be? A puppet, a rabid dog on a leash. Intelligence didn't mean he was above being some sort of pet. This was the real reason Sherlock decided to stick to Lestrade, to his new family.

Not once did Lestrade push him. He didn't nudge him ever so gently into a therapist office, or bump him away from people like Mycroft did. He cared without doing a thing and sometimes, that was all Sherlock needed. He didn't want anyone to help him, there was nothing wrong with him, he just wanted to know there was someone there when he needed help. Sherlock knew he'd never bring himself to ask, though.

There were two doors, though. Two doors he didn't go through. One was at the back of his palace with huge glass doors and elegant trim. Outside, he could see the navy ocean and the liquid sky and the ledge of the cliff, but the door didn't open. It never had and he was sure it never would. It was simply there. He wondered, sometimes, if it was an escape route and other times he wondered if it was bliss. Perhaps there was death beyond the door or perhaps new life. Sherlock didn't think about it often. It made him feel weird.

The second door was on the opposite side. It opened. Outside there was a lawn and a white picket fence and there were children laughing and playing and adults conversing to one another. The sky was blue and the street shined with new pavement and it was nice. The children called to him to play and the adults smile and waved him out. Sherlock only went out once. Then he stopped and ran back inside. He didn't like it out there. He didn't know what was out there. He didn't know who they were or what they were thinking and he didn't like it. He ran back into his palace, back into the cold truths he knew to be true and he never opened the door again.

_Baby. _That wasn't mother's voice. It was coming from Irene Adler's room. She wasn't his mother. He'd already thought about that. It was possible, sure, considering her age, but highly unlikely. She didn't know who he was or how old he was and adults were very good at picking out their own children.

Sherlock opened his eyes against the peeking morning sun with mild confusion. He climbed out of bed, ignoring Mycroft's noise of displeasure, and wandered out to find the source. The cooing sound of a mother calling to her child. It was coming from the phone. Lestrade hadn't bothered to lock it away, which he was glad for, and the man was a heavy sleeper so it was easy to fetch it from his side table without waking him. He returned to the living room, where John was opted to stay the night again, and climbed into the little recliner.

He could smell her perfume. She'd been here. They would have noticed if she broke in through the windows. No one noticed her if she walked the house as if she belonged there. Lestrade didn't wake up when Sherlock came in and he wouldn't wake up when John entered, but if a man slipped through the window, he'd know. He would have to find out where she got a key from.

There was a message.

_Good morning, Sherlock. _

So he responded.

_Good morning. Mrs. Adler._

Very domestic indeed. She was playing at something and she was a fool if she thought she could blend herself into the form of his Mummy. The very thought that she was trying to do that struck him hard. No, Sherlock didn't take the death of his mother hard. People died, she was sick and suffering, it was for the best, but he still loved his mother. She was still his Mummy. The woman was digging herself in a place she didn't belong in. He wasn't sure what sort of feeling it was, though. She obviously had no business in her attempt but Sherlock's little boy mind was still trying to grasp at something of a family.

He had a brother and two fathers, but no mother. Logic and nature didn't go hand in hand.

_Did you sleep well?_

_Yes._

_Any good dreams?_

_I don't dream._

_That's too bad._

_Is it?_

"Sherlock?" John shifted a little, obviously uncomfortable on the couch.

"Good morning." Sherlock murmured softly.

"What are you doing?" He groaned through his sleepy haze.

"Talking to Mrs. Adler." He explained innocently. There was no harm in it. Any means of her getting close were doomed to fail and she wouldn't use force, that was already painfully obvious. She had plenty of chances to forcibly kidnap him.

"Irene Adler." The blonde man sat up a little quicker.

"Yes."

o-o-o-o-o

For them being, as far as the boys could tell, only good friends, Lestrade and John seemed very parent like together. Sherlock didn't like to be scolded which was exactly what had come from him contacting a stranger. He hardly saw how she was a stranger, now. John, of course, had explained to the other man about his little text exchanged which turned into more trouble than Sherlock thought was necessary.

"You have to be more careful. We don't know anything about this woman."

"I know everything I need to know to know she is no threat to me." Sherlock insisted. "She's had many chanced to 'kidnap' me and she hasn't." To be honest, it wouldn't be hard to kidnap him. He knew if he didn't go, they would hurt his family and possibly even him. They wouldn't do anything drastic, but he didn't need more scars. He still scratched at the one on his face and John was constantly smacking his hand away.

"You've met her?" Lestrade demanded. That was the 'I'm going to choke you out, you miniature moron' voice. Sherlock sank in his seat a little. Even Mycroft was upset with him, sitting off to the side and taking more interest in the news than him. They were making this way worse than it needed to be. John was watching him with those disappointed eyes. Sherlock really hated those eyes.

"She took me for ice cream yesterday." He explained.

"That's where you disappeared to?" Sherlock nodded grudgingly. The phone called out to him again, this time from Lestrade's hand. The detective checked it for himself. Sherlock knew it would be harder to get it back, now.

_Such a strict daddy, aren't you?_

"She's watching us."

"They're always watching. Moriarty, too."

"Don't bother." Mycroft said again. "They're lackies. They'll probably kill themselves before they tell you where their bosses are. If you even get their before they scram." There were cameras in the house, but he'd managed to cover up most of them. He was sure that was why there were real people watching now.

Lestrade was worried. There seemed to be a pattern when the Holmes were involved. He would have to keep Sherlock on a leash at this rate and even that wouldn't give him the results he wanted. He had no doubt the boy would be able to squirm out of any situation with enough time. Which, he supposed, was a good thing, but not for Lestrade. He had no way of keeping tabs on the boy. Mycroft was typically easier to find and had only wandered off once and that was only to the loo.

Sherlock didn't even look as if he'd done anything wrong. He looked like a punished pup, sure, but he was getting better at faking that look to get Lestrade to let up on him. He wasn't even sure if the boy knew he was doing it. It hurt Lestrade to know that Moriarty was right. It was only a matter of time before he was consciously and willingly manipulating everyone around him. Maybe being here was making it worse for him. Mycroft had a pretty good grip on it before, but now, even Mycroft seemed to be at a loss of what to do. If there was anything they could do.

Under no circumstances, though, would he hand over the boy to anyone else. He simply wouldn't do it. He couldn't trust anyone else to properly handle the boys, even if he wasn't sure what he was doing was proper. It was hard handling Sherlock. Certainly more difficult than most people. He had to tread carefully. If Sherlock was telling the truth and Lestrade punished him, the boy would feel neglected, but if he was lying and Lestrade didn't punish him, he would get away with it and continue. It wasn't that black and white, though. It was very difficult to sort out right and wrong and it was only getting worse.

"Mrs. Adler, what does she want?" He dropped his voice a little and Sherlock visibly relaxed.

"I'm not sure yet."

"I don't want you getting hurt, okay?" Sherlock nodded a little. "You have to tell me when these things happen."

"You were still sleeping."

"Then wake me up."

"Yes, Mr. Lestrade."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

For the most part, Lestrade allowed little Sherlock to have contact with the woman. John continued to glare at him whenever he handed the phone over, but the army man wouldn't say a word. Lestrade knew he didn't trust this Adler woman, and to be honest, he didn't either, but he also knew that she would get to him one way or another. It really upset him that Sherlock would simply walk away with anyone.

"Do you even know what she's telling him?" John scoffed, standing side by side with the man as they prepared another meal. Greg had never been much of a cook, and unfortunately, neither was John, but together they managed to salve together some form of food. It might not taste amazing, but the boys didn't complain. Making meals every night was good practice, though. It wasn't nearly as bad with real food. Lestrade would never understand how his wife had made anything with 'lite' anything.

Mrs. Lestrade was doing well after the little incident. She certainly liked Sherlock better and even attempted to convince Greg that she was ready to change. He'd turned her away, for a number of reasons, and she'd gone quietly. She was in protective services, now, just in case he decided to use her as a pawn again. Ex or not, Lestrade wasn't going to let her get hurt. He was a little worried about John, too. He was getting awfully close and while he'd proved to be able to take care of him, he'd also proved that it was easy to chloroform him.

"That's the strange thing. She's not goading him to act like a psychopath. She hasn't even mentioned it." He was very strict on watching the communications between the two. Whatever her intentions were, he was going to know about them.

"She's just acting very, motherly." Greg finished a little awkwardly. It was strange. He knew it was probably some kind of attempt to get close to Sherlock and take him away and that he shouldn't be allowing it, but Sherlock was very up in the air about the whole encounter. Mycroft wasn't. He wanted her out of the way now. Sherlock had never had a lot of time with their mother. He'd been too young when she was healthy and she was too sick when he was old enough to remember. Sherlock was too open to things like this.

"Motherly?" John scoffed.

"Yeah. I think she may be getting to him, too." Lestrade admitted.

"And you don't think there's a problem with that?" Well he did. Of course he did, and he was worried, but there wasn't a lot he could do.

"It's better than having her walk off with him. I know that." The older man shrugged a little and John gave a noise of displeasure. He disapproved, but if Sherlock was happy, it was worth a chance. Hopefully he wasn't wrong. Things would turn sour fast.

"Where is Sherlock?" The blonde questioned with the sudden realization that the little boy was not working on his puzzle. He'd finished it. Lestrade dropped his knife instantly.

"Sherlock!"

"I'm right here." The small male poked his head around the corner with a curious look, as if he never did those things they all knew he did.

"Someone dropped this in the mail slot." He examined the edge curiously. There didn't seem to be anything strange about it, but the panic was too far set in. Lestrade snatched it from him immediately.

"For fuck's sake Sherlock! How many times do I have to tell you not to keep things to yourself?"

"It's not going to explode." Sherlock huffed.

"And you know that how?"

"It's not heavy enough. It's just paper."

"And possibly poison." John added in with all the cheer in the world. Sherlock returned his sour expression. That was very unlikely. On cue, the phone buzzed.

"It's him." Sherlock assured them instantly. Irene never called. Sure enough, the room was instantly filled with a laugh of a greeting. Sherlock felt an air of eagerness as he awaited the instructions for the next game. It had something to do with the file, he knew that much.

"Are you ready to stop playing kiddy games, Sherlock? The last one was too easy, wasn't it?" Moriarty insisted in his falsetto voice. Sherlock made no response.

"Good! I'm sick of these children's games." The phone hissed with a sudden distain for everything. It was gone in an instant.

"Let's see how you do with a real world test and real victims. It's not a game without any victims. That file, it's a case your pretend little daddy is working on."

"Moriarty," Lestraid said firmly. It was an attempt at a warning.

"Don't interrupt! I'm tired of your voice!" It yelped. Finally showing his true colors, then. Sherlock could barely prevent himself from flinching as he stopped the red dot focused on Lestrade's temple. The room went silent and the detective instantly straightened his posture as if it would help.

"There now. Silence is gold, bullets are silver." Sherlock really didn't want to find out if his sniper had silver bullets. The man sighed.

"In that file is all the information you need. It's so simple. Poor little detective always in over his head." The little Holmes glanced toward the two men watching him expectantly before opening up the case and scattering the files over the table. Mycroft looked away. A murder case; pictures and all. It didn't bother Sherlock. It wasn't even all that bloody. She was mangled, her boyfriend even more so. It was obvious she was pregnant, or had been at least. The voice laughed at him again.

"Oh, my little Sherlock. Such the perfect little son. Doesn't even flinch when faced with a gory death. You have an hour." The focus on Lestrade disappeared and the line went dead. John hurriedly pulled Mycroft to his side, making sure he wasn't going to be sick.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said with his usual comforting tone. He always used that tone when he thought Sherlock wouldn't make it. The little boy had to guess it was some sort of false stadium buried in deep reverse psychology. Psychology wasn't his strong suit, though.

"I can do it." Sherlock assured him with the smallest of smiles. He'd never done this before. To see everything on paper was different than seeing it in the people. His sight was obstructed by the boarders of the photos and the ink of the words. He managed, though. Moriarty hadn't said anything about the faults of failing, but Sherlock was sure it was a catastrophe waiting to happen. Or worse, Lestrade would pay.

He just had to tune everything out. Focus came easy. Words lifted off the page and before he knew it, he'd completely zoned everything else out. It was amazing, really. He didn't even had to think, everything was already there, running without needing much work. He could see his thoughts, the familiar white print always in focus no matter where he looked. Time was running and he knew he didn't have time to explore the new addition.

Ten minutes.

Why wasn't her dress bloody? The knife wound was there, but no blood.

Twenty five minutes.

The clock was slow. Three hours according to the time the photo was taken.

Thirty seven minutes.

Where's his ring? Perhaps they weren't together.

Forty nine minutes.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the phone rang. He didn't bother with it, though. His time wasn't up. Eleven minutes was all he needed to wrap things up. He hoped. It really was a puzzle. The pieces fit together so easily. It was fantastic. So much more enjoyable than the puzzles his fathers kept dropping in front of him.

"Got it."

"Three minutes." The phone teased. Thankfully, it was the good kind. It was a little hard to tell the difference with this man, but the air of excitement was enough.

"It was the boyfriend." Sherlock answered simply.

"Very good. Why?" And Sherlock explained. He explained that the dead man's boyfriend had gotten her pregnant while he husband was on leave. How she always set the clock to where ever he was stationed and how her husband's twin brother did more than comfort her. How his boyfriend found out and threw a fit and how he 'solved' the problem by stabbing her. He hardly saw how that was solving the problem, but if telly taught him anything, it was that no one needed a reason to do anything. When he realize what he'd done, he panicked, then regret, anger, sorrow, and finally wised up enough to at least attempt to hide his misdeed.

Lestrade seemed a little put off. They'd checked him out, he was innocent.

A shot shattered the window behind them. There was a split second where nothing happened, even less than an instant, then John yanked Mycroft aside, hiding behind the china cabinet. Lestrade ducked under the kitchen cabinets. Sherlock didn't move. He hadn't gotten it wrong. If he wanted to, he wouldn't have killed one of them and he didn't. There was no such thing as a warning shot.

"You stupid fucking cunt! I did not tell you to shoot!" That certainly wasn't for him. There was the sound of the phone being put down and more yelling.

"I will fucking drown you in your own fucking blood!" Sherlock gathered the papers back into the folder, patiently waiting for the man to return.

"I'm sorry, little Sherlock. You just can't find good help these days. We'll be meeting soon. I must go take care of a man with twitchy fingers."

o-o-o-o-o

'Soon' was not a word Sherlock liked. Soon was a very open ended statement. An entire week was not soon. The later it got, the more anxious they became. Mycroft couldn't focus on his work, or even on the news. He kept watching for the man without a face. He kept watching Sherlock with a look Sherlock had never seen before. It wasn't worry. It was fear. For him or of him, Sherlock couldn't tell. Lestrade was getting paranoid of everyone, even the people who had no use in any of this, even John. John was getting jumpy. It was only a matter of time before he pulled his gun on an innocent person.

Sherlock couldn't stand it. They didn't understand. This is what Moriarty wanted. They were collapsing in on themselves. Did he really want to be like them? All their worry and fear and doubt. Was that was made people good? If that was the case, he didn't want to be good. He didn't want to be bad. He didn't want to be Moriarty, but he didn't want to be good. He wanted to be happy. Was that such a bad thing? No, not happy. He didn't want to be bored, which transited to being happy.

_Ice cream? IA_

"Where are you going?" Lestrade's eyes were on him in an instant. He expected it. This office was suffocating. Even little Sherlock Holmes needed to run and play and be outside some of the time. He turned to the man with hurt eyes. He didn't have to use that voice, after all.

"The loo." He lied without really thinking. The man didn't think twice about it and Sherlock trudged out of the office easily. Again, none of them paid him any mind. He could have sworn Lestrade told them to keep a closer eye on him. He didn't blame them, of course. He was a danger to them and their families. She waited outside for him like she had before and he quietly took her hand. They didn't walk this time. Instead, she led him into the back of a car with tinted windows.

Sherlock did hesitate for a moment, but in the end, he came along. He had no idea if she was going to take him o Moriarty, but it was better to get it over with. Besides, the man was flashy. He'd probably pop into the police station in tights and a cape and make a show about kidnapping him. Thankfully, she didn't. In fact, she took him to the one place he wanted to be most; the park.

"You don't want to play?" Irene questioned in her mild mannered way. It was bizarre. She was so strange and interesting, but without having to be flashy. Well, she was a little flashy, with her tiny clothes, but that wasn't for Sherlock. He had no idea where she came from or where she went to after meeting up with him, but he supposed it had to do with her work.

"I'll get dirty. Mr. Lestrade isn't very good at laundry and he won't let Mr. Watson do it." He explained. He didn't mind as they sat side by side on the little bench, enjoying the cold treat she had bought him. It was cool outside, the leaves fluttered to the ground, but it was nice.

"And they'll know you left, then?" She chuckled.

"Mr. Watson followed me here." Sherlock answered plainly. He felt her stiffen beside him, but didn't make any move to look around for him.

"Don't worry. He's relatively harmless."

"I noticed the word 'relatively' in there."

"No sudden movements and he won't lunge." He licked the stickiness off of his finger, though it only made it worse. She took a handkerchief from her bag and helped him wipe his hands off. She wet the corner with her tongue and did his mouth as well, though Sherlock squirmed away mildly.

"I brought you something."

"Why?"

"Because it's cold." Irene smiled and went back for her purse. Sherlock peeked around her curiously and she drew out a plush scarf. She wrapped it properly around his neck and he touched with wandering fingers. It was soft and warm. He smiled.

"Thank you, Mrs. Adler."

"You don't have to keep calling me that."

"I don't think dominatrix are allowed to be mothers." But she only laughed.

"It's time to go now, Sherlock." John, as politely and casually as he could, approached the bench with his hands falsely placed on his back. Usually it was nonchalant, but his stiff form and obvious distrust for the woman only made it awkward. Sherlock offered a small nod.

"Yes, Mr. Watson. Good bye, Mrs. Adler."

o-o-o-o-o

He didn't get disciplined, so Sherlock had to assume John hadn't told Lestrade where he'd gone. It was for everyone's best interest. His brother eyes his new scarf, but hadn't said a word. It seemed Mycroft was speaking to him less and less and it was starting to bother little Sherlock because he didn't know why. His family was falling apart whether he wanted it to or not. He wasn't happy.

It was two more days until the bad news came: Irene Adler was dead. Sherlock found himself strangely hurt. Things were quiet the few days following. He didn't say a word, he wasn't really sure why. There were simply no words that he could find. In a way, it was good. Lestrade kept telling John that he was depressed, only when he thought Sherlock wasn't listening of course, but Sherlock didn't agree with that. He wasn't depressed. He wasn't sure what it was, but that wasn't the right word.

They relaxed a little more. Lestrade quietly read to him during the night, though Sherlock was only listening to his voice. John sat on the porch with him during the day with Mycroft and they planted flowers. Flowers Sherlock planned to use later for tea and mostly experimenting. Mycroft spoke to him again, it was obvious he was worried, and it took a few days, but Sherlock finally found his voice again.

It started with more violin and a lot of thinking and ended with;

"I think I should meet Moriarty." It went about as well as he thought it would.

"No! Are you bloody stupid! You are not understanding how dangerous this situation is, Sherlock!" Lestrade seemed to respond to a lot of things with violence. Sherlock was glad for that, though. It meant he cared. When he gave up on his wife, he barely raised his voice. He'd given up completely. John just kind of gapped at him.

"I know." Sherlock responded quietly. If possible, he never wanted to put a face to the voice, but he knew that wasn't a possibility. He just didn't want them to get emotional over him. If he had nothing to say then why did he need to say anything? It was really rather simple. Mycroft understood. He usually did.

His older brother hugged him with a sudden surge of relief. Mycroft murmured a small utterance of 'I'm glad you're okay' and Sherlock only smiled a little. For what it was worth, Greg seemed to understand. He let go of his anger with a small sigh and gave him a small pat on the head.

"You're getting better. Just keep practicing."

Only John didn't believe he was okay. The army man set worried eyes on him and didn't look away. He saw what Sherlock couldn't see in himself.

When Sherlock returned to his palace that night, he found Irene's room had moved. It didn't worry him. The rooms moved all the time, as long as they didn't disappear. It sat hand in hand with his real mother's room in the curious spot in the basement. He debated with himself whether or not to lock it but in the end, he couldn't. If he started locking rooms now, when would it stop?

At least life wasn't boring for the moment.


	7. Chapter 7

Note: I love Sherlock's mind palace. . . I also might have to bump this up to 'M'.

Soon came.

Sherlock awoke to discover that the spot beside him was empty. Mycroft often awoke before him, but rarely left the room until after he was awake. The older male was usually watching telly by the time Sherlock awoke, which usually meant he ended up learning things he really didn't care about. Mycroft did it on purpose. Today was different. There was no telly and no Mycroft.

The house was quiet. He sat up and listened for anything at all and found none. John wasn't moving around the kitchen, Lestrade wasn't showering, Mycroft wasn't watching telly. He wasn't going to jump to conclusions, though. He climbed out of bed and like every morning, bathed and dressed himself. Not to go to the office, though. No, today he dressed himself as casually as possible with his new little scarf and purple button up that John always liked to dress him in.

Then he made himself breakfast. There really wasn't anyone here. He knew the locks wouldn't stand up. Sherlock made himself a bowl of cereal, which was simple enough since everything was at his level. The counter was just a little bit above his eye height, but he managed without making much of a mess. John wouldn't be happy if he made a mess. He sat down at the table all by himself and stared down the phone waiting there for him. It'd been placed there, seeing as Lestrade had locked it in his drawer last time he saw.

The young Holmes finished his breakfast in silence. As soon as he finished, the phone rang. They were watching him, then. Sherlock felt a little uneasy now. It was different when he was all alone. He answered it.

"Good morning!" The voice yelped cheerily. "So sorry for the wait. Naughty naughty government tried to pull a fast one on me." He giggled. "BOOM!"

Sherlock was well aware this man was completely out of his mind. He didn't make any response. What was he suppose to do? Congratulate him? Actually, that was a good idea.

"Congratulations." He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the man laughed again.

"Thank you." The phone purred. "Why don't you come on home. Your little family is waiting for you." With no other instructions, the line went dead. Sherlock pocketed the phone and left the little safe haven he'd called home for the last couple months. Thankfully, he knew how to make his way around London without anyone paying much attention to him. He trudged on the heels of older looking women and cut through parks and playgrounds, but was careful to avoid schools. He traveled in groups and occasionally would hold onto the loose end of a jacket or sleeve. No one noticed him and no one fretted over him.

It was strange to be back at his house again. It looked even worse now. Before Sherlock and Mycroft had at least tried to keep the plants from overtaking the house and cared for it as much as they could, but now it was beyond salvaging. The front door was locked, but like he was so use to, he fetched both keys with the help of an over turned pot and trudged into the barren house. The living room was empty. They must have moved out the furniture, though Sherlock wasn't sure who 'they' were.

"Upstairs, little Sherlock." It was the man on the phone. Sherlock hesitated as he approached the stairs. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but he knew it wasn't going to be good. The man was a monster. Quietly, he took the stairs up one at a time and followed the source of the light into the study.

"Nice of you to join us." Not what he was expecting at all. The man was rather short, but neat beyond the reach of his occupation. His clothing was expensive, his eyes wide with insanity, and he trembled with an air of excitement. He hardly looked like a monster, but Sherlock knew otherwise. He hung back in the door a little, anxious of everything and slightly frightened of this man, though he didn't know why. Moriarty only smiled at him and tilted his head in a pointed way.

Sherlock allowed his eyes to waver from the man and to his little family, bound each to their own chair. Besides that, they were somewhat unharmed. Lestrade had a black eye and a split lip; obviously where he had fought against his kidnappers and John looked uncomfortable with his wounded twisted away even though the stab wound had healed long ago. Mycroft simply looked unhappy. His wrist was only recently freed from the sling and being tied back was sure to only make it worse. Sherlock hadn't heard anyone enter the house, he hadn't hear any fighting, and worry shot through him.

"Let them go." Sherlock demanded as politely as possible. He received another laugh. It hadn't bothered him before, but it certainly did now. This man was laughing at him.

"So straight forward. What would be the fun in that? Besides, I need the little pawns." He smacked Lestrade's cheek roughly, making him turn away.

"Are you ready to come with me, Sherlock? I can teach you so much." Moriarty approached him and Sherlock took a step back without thinking. Soft hands traveled confidently through his hair. "All of the pieces are already there. It couldn't have gone any better if I planned it." He yanked the boy's head back, making Sherlock yelp unhappily.

"These people are so boring. Every day life is so boring and yet you must put up with them. You must deal with them never understanding." He suddenly yanked Sherlock towards him, cradling his head against his stomach gently. "Oh, you're brother is intelligent, perhaps so even more than you, but," He drew on the word more than he needed to. "Not what I need. He has all those pitiful boring ideas. Completely useless." Moriarty scoffed.

"But you don't. I've watched you for a long time. Ever since you 'accidentally' stopped that armed robbery. Honestly, a child! Stopping my robbery! Incredible." It was a form of compliment, but Sherlock couldn't take it as one.

"And no one even knew. No one even knew you had been there or that you had stopped it. I knew. You're just dying for everyone to know how smart you are." No. He had to focus. He needed to get his family out of here. Sherlock was finding it hard to concentrate again. He couldn't look away from this man. He saw everything on him, but not all of it was real. It was like he'd done it on purpose. Sherlock was sure he had and it was working. He couldn't make heads or tails of the man, let alone find a solid piece of evidence that this really was Moriarty. It was, sure, but there was no proof.

"I can see you working." The man purred in his ear. Sherlock jerked away quickly, putting as much space between them as he could without showing the man he was afraid. He wasn't afraid, not for himself. Moriarty leaned down to be at eye level with him and Sherlock instantly raised his chin defiantly, assuring this man that he was better than him. That was obviously a bad idea, for Moriarty struck him in an instant and the little boy was taken aback.

"Oops. My hand slipped." The man laughed. Laughed at him. Sherlock held his face in his palm, unamused. Lestrade jerked around and made noises around the cloth in his mouth, but neither of them paid him any attention.

"You are a very smart child, Sherlock, but not smart enough for that."

"That?" Sherlock murmured, though he knew perfectly well what the man was referring to. The man knew he knew, too, and only offered another laugh. Sherlock was getting very fed up with that laugh.

"That's not why we're here. Come now, are you ready to come with me?" No. He didn't want to go anywhere with this man, especially if it meant more hitting. He was a tiny thing, after all. He hardly saw how this was going to be a far fight. On the other hand, with the man crouched down, it would be incredibly easy to stab him in the eye, or eyes. It was a tempting thought. Pale green eyes met hazel and a silent battle began. There was something in Moriarty's eyes, the way they glinted so happily, so pleased with himself, that Sherlock was allured to. He couldn't refuse that he was attracted to the idea Moriarty offered.

People would know he was intelligent. They wouldn't pass him on the street, they wouldn't pretend he didn't exist, and he wouldn't have to beg strangers for money and attention. Sherlock had thought about it. He broke the stare first, glancing toward his little family worriedly. He didn't want them to get hurt, either. He didn't want to leave, but he didn't have much of a choice. With resign on his face, he nodded.

"Yes."

"You are smart." Moriarty rewarded him with another gentle stroke of the head and Sherlock realized he was mimicking Lestrade's praise. He didn't dwindle on it long. His eyes were instantly on the sound of a cocking gun. He hadn't even realized the man had a gun.

"First lesson. People are disposable."

"What?"

"You didn't think they'd be leaving here, did you?" Moriarty laughed. Sherlock grabbed a handful of the finely tailored suit, attempting to hold him back, but it was useless. He dragged him without even a thought, playfully rotating the classic cylinder of his gun.

"Six bullets." He sang cheerfully. "As easy as it would be to put them out of their misery now, let's start with the knees." Sherlock's tugging and pulling was utterly useless. He wrapped both hands around Moriarty's wrist as he aligned the muzzle of his gun with Lestrade's knee but Moriarty's watch was doing more to keep him at bay than Sherlock was.

Click.

Bang.

Lestrade's muffled cried of agony was enough to send Sherlock's mind into panic mode. He'd never panicked before. There had never been any need for it. Panic got him nowhere, but this was different. Panic and adrenaline was an awful mixture. He had to do something! He had to do something now! Every single one of his senses were blown wide open. Everything was too much. He'd never had to see everything in such a short amount of time. It was too much for him to handle and his sight failed.

First it was dark. He'd done it. Mycroft was right. He'd broken his brain. He'd broken his brain and they were going to die and then Moriarty was going to kill him. Then he was in his palace.

He'd never been in his palace when there was so much noise. Usually only when he was sleeping or got a moment to himself and now he knew why. The whole place shook. Doors were opening and slamming shut all on their own and information was leaking out of every corner. There was too much and not enough time to sort through it all. He wouldn't even know where to start. He backed away from the quickly flooding hall.

Then he was outside. The navy sea and liquid sky. The door was open and Sherlock suddenly knew what was beyond the glass door. He peered down over the ledge at the waves calling to him. It was an escape route from himself. It was bliss. It was death and new life. He could leave his palace, his mind, only taking what he had with him (basic motor functions and a bit of language) and cast himself into a new life. He wouldn't have to remember any of this. He wouldn't have to know what Lestrade's pained screams sounded like.

A scream cut through his thoughts. It was John. Sherlock cringed. What John's pained screams sounded like.

He wouldn't remember his brother, or his broke family, or his failures. He'd probably still be mentally ill, but he wouldn't know it. Just one step and he'd never have to remember causing his family pain. Just one and the sea would swallow him up and he'd leave his palace to the claims of the webs and time until it wore away. Always there, but never would he have to step foot in it again. He would never have to look back and never would be able to.

"And now little Mycroft."

"Sherlock,"

Then there was light.

"Sebby is going to be very unhappy if you do that." Sherlock stepped away from the cliff side. To give up so easily; it was boring. Moriarty removed the barrel of his gun from the little boy's knee and Mycroft visibly relaxed. He was never one from crying, but tears pricked his eyes much against his will.

"Oh?" The man smirked. "Is that so?"

"Come on out. It seems unfair that we're playing with all of my pieces but none of yours. I can see you. I can hear you breathing." Sherlock stepped between Moriarty and his brother protectively. He'd managed to catch his attention for now and Sherlock planned on keeping it, but it was impossible to tell with this man.

"Come on out, Seb." Sure enough, the tall man entered the room without a sound and while he appeared unarmed, Sherlock knew better. The little Holmes laughed, but it wasn't the same as Moriarty's. Moriarty laughed as if he knew everything, he laughed to show everyone that he was better than them and that he loved every second of it. Sherlock laughed because he knew this man was wrong.

"Oh poor little James," The name struck a cord and a flash of irritation passed by Moriarty's features.

"Don't test me."

"Aw. Why? It's very fun. Sebby isn't like you, is he? He's not a complete monster. He doesn't want you to hurt Mycroft, he's only a boy after all, and it drives you mad. Oh, but you've always known he still holds onto strings of his humanity." Sherlock glanced over his wounded fathers, each with a single shattered knee, but still alive. Then to Mycroft. The younger Holmes smirked.

"Mycroft wouldn't have come so easily, but Sebby there didn't lay a hand on him. He had no problem with forcibly knocking Lestrade unconscious, and by the bruises forming on Watson, he wasn't exactly against that, either, but not a single mark on Mycroft. It must be frustrating. In fact, it is. It makes you so mad all you can do it strike him." He glanced over the taller male and his twitching fingers and was ecstatic to see that he was right. Of course he was right. He could see it, all of it.

"A sniper, but he's more than that. I can still see the blood stain on his collar. There are bruises all over your throat. You really shouldn't choke your workers, James. They tend not to like that. But that's not true, is it? Poor little Sebby takes every hit you throw at him and when you can't throw any more, he still loves you. You smell of his cologne and their cigarette on your breath, but you don't smoke." Everyone has a tell. Sherlock loved that piece of information.

Moriarty stared him down viciously, but Sherlock wasn't going to turn away this time. The man could hit him, and probably would before he was done, but he was going to tear open every wall Moriarty built around himself and stab at the squishy insides with the same amount of care that he'd shot his father's with.

"Do you know you have a tell?" Sherlock chuckled, lips curled up far beyond his control. This was fun. Perhaps Moriarty had a point. "You should probably work on that. Twitch. Twitch. Twitch." Moriarty twitched.

"You're getting mad. That's not new, though. Pathetic men often can't control their emotions." The long barrel focused on his forehead and Sherlock's smirk only grew. "Look at that. All those marks on your arm. Life is so boring sometimes all you want to do is give it up but you won't. You can't let go. You won't let go. You're afraid. So afraid." Moriarty swiftly pulled his sleeve down again, smiling pleasantly.

"Very good. I was right. You're just like me. So cold." Good, now they were both playing. Perhaps he had blindsided the man a little with a sudden poke to his relationship, but now things were going to be much more difficult. He would give this man exactly what he wanted. He would show him how much of a psychopath he could be.

"Sherlock," His brother's voice didn't register completely. He was too busy pulling back the layers. Sebastian was this man's weak spot, but Moriarty wasn't the conventional man. He wouldn't stand for a weakness. Objective one: Make James Moriarty shoot his right hand man.

"It's very infective, isn't it? Feelings. I have to guess that you never assumed you'd actually fall in love with him. Oh, but love is a funny thing to you. It's not real love. Not the usual love. Violence. Dominance. You're not just another person. You're not! There's your tell again. It's just going crazy." He nonchalantly straightened out the sleeves of his coat, showing Moriarty that he wasn't worth all of Sherlock's attention.

"You know I'm bluffing. You don't have a tell." Sherlock chuckle. "You're right. You don't. Sebastian does." Instantly, Jim jerked around to face the man.

"Heavy smoker, antsy fingers. Such a twitchy little thing, you have. You just can't have that, can you James? Everything else is so perfect and there he is, giving away your every secret. Every little twitch of his yellow fingers, every suspicious eye movement; I can read him like a book. You have to get rid of him. Four bullets, James, and it only takes one to kill." Then there was the ear splitting sound of a shot.

Sherlock's brain immediately told him that he was in pain. Searing, intense, life threatening pain surging through his body, but he didn't feel it. The rest of his brain didn't know what to do with it. He turned shocked eyes down to watch the blood run down his side. He didn't know what to do. Going unconscious would be best, but the adrenalin wouldn't have it. He touched the wound with shaky fingers, but his mind drew long blanks of nothing.

"Sherlock!"

"Sebastian! You stupid cunt! Why would you do that!" Jim shouted, cracking his sniper's jaw with his pistol. "Did you think he was getting to me? This is why you don't think Sebastian! You stand there and you look nice and you don't pull the trigger until I fucking tell you to!"

Mycroft struggled in his seat. His binds were tight, military knots, but the tiny fingers and hands on the Holmes were very tricky things to fasten. He knew there was little he could do on his own, but he could try. Even if it meant absolute death, he had to try. Moriarty made a mistake in tying him to a chair he knew so well. The back brace was loose and with a bit of wiggling, broke away from the rest of the chair easily.

As quickly and with as much power as he could muster, he swung the wooden piece at their attacker's wrist, disarming him. Mycroft had not expected that to work. Thankfully, Lestrade was just as hard to keep tied down. Pure luck, and a little skill from Mycroft, landed the revolver in his reach. He wasted no time pointing it firmly at the criminal. Sebastian quickly went on the offence, aiming his own weapon at the younger Holmes. Jim's glare made him advert it to the less useful brother.

Mycroft hurriedly went about untying John who immediately yanked the cloth from his mouth.

"We have to get Sherlock to the hospital!" Not to mention Greg and himself. He was already feeling a little light headed from the pain and the blood, but Sherlock would die long before he did. Moriarty raised a hand, silently calling off his dog.

"I have punishment to dole out." He grabbed the taller man by his collar and hauled him out of the room and out of the house with a lot of yelling and even more cursing. The only reason Lestrade didn't shoot one of them was because he had no idea how well armed Moriarty was and Sebastian didn't exactly look like he was going to be taken down by one measly bullet. He didn't need two wounded, possibly dead, children.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Stay with me!" John leaned on his hip, keeping any and all pressure off of his currently useless knee, and pushed on the wound. "It'll be okay. It's okay. I got you." Without a sound, Sherlock fell into unconsciousness.

Great. His entire palace was in shambles. It would take forever to get this place straightened out. His side was killing him, which, unfortunately, was much too true for his taste. He couldn't get any work done with his entire body wracked with pain. Sherlock's mind kept taking him back to the 'recovery' room. Or in other words, the room that he kept all of his functions in. Yes! He knew he was in pain, but he couldn't turn it off and he couldn't tune it out. The emergency lights weren't helping, either. It was very hard to control his own mind, sometimes. He never went in this room. The strange thing about functions was that they tended to take care of themselves. The last time Sherlock poked around in there he'd forgotten how to walk for two whole hours. He didn't know what any of this information meant!

"Don't let go. Don't let go."

Sherlock scrambled around the room rather helplessly. He hated feeling helpless in his own mind. This was supposed to be his safe haven. He was guessing the problem was in the box making a lot of static. Broken wires were usually bad and every time he touched it, it shocked him. He couldn't fix it but his mind demanded that he did. Sherlock didn't like this game!

"We'll fix you right up, just hold on."

_What do you want me to do about it? It's broken, just leave it alone. Disconnect it or something!_ He wasn't listening to himself. Now he knew why the adults got so mad when he didn't pay them any mind. That didn't mean he was going to stop, of course. _I know it's not supposed to look like that! Stop yelling at me! I've never done this before!_

"Just hold on, Sherlock!"

Then it stopped. He wasn't entirely sure why, but he was glad for it. He eyed the broken spot suspiciously, but it stopped sparking so he deemed it okay. It would just have to fix itself. Time for cleaning. And cleaning. And more cleaning. He'd lost some stuff in the wreck, that much was obvious. Some rooms were missing, but as he cleaned, he recovered most of them thankfully. He'd have to start learning Latin again, that was just completely gone, and some of his motor functions were broken, but he was more worried about the trauma.

"Please, Sherlock. Please wake up."

Sherlock understood, now, why John limped. He knew there wasn't actually anything wrong with him, but it still hurt. The first time he went back into Moriarty's room, Sebastian had shot him. He knew it wasn't real, but it had startled and hurt him none the less. Eventually though, his palace was back in prime condition. That couldn't have taken very long. A couple hours at the most. After all, time passed faster in his mind than it did outside.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. So sorry."

He spared a last glance at the now open door. It would always be open, now. He'd always have a way out when he couldn't stand it anymore. When he didn't want to be Sherlock Holmes anymore.

"Sherlock,"

He supposed there would always be a reason for him to stay. Mycroft for one. His brother would be awfully disappointed if he ever knew he willingly got amnesia. He was sure Mycroft would make a big deal about it; mental suicide. Lestrade was working very hard to take care of him, even as hard and dangerous as it was apparently. If he knew adopting him would be so deadly, Sherlock would have never allowed himself to get so close. Lestrade didn't deserve this. And Watson, of course. John was always pushing him to be better at whatever he wanted to do and saw him for his intelligence rather than his age.

"Just open your eyes, please, please."

So Sherlock made a promise to himself, an absolute. As long as one of those people still lived and loved him, he wouldn't even consider the door. It was a useless door, now.

"That's it. Come one, Sherlock. I know you're stronger than this."

Two pale green eyes fluttered open. The first thing he met was the crisp ceiling and bright lights. He was in a hospital, then. He shifted a little, discovering immediately that he was attached to several very hospital devices. He didn't like it. A hand brushed over his forehead and over his head and Sherlock turned eyes on him at once. Lestrade smiled back down at him. John was grasping his hand tightly, looking far more relieved than Sherlock had ever seen him. Mycroft stood at the end of his bed, anxious and obviously wanting to hug him but unable to do so due to all the equipment.

"I knew you'd do it." The detective breathed. Sherlock forced himself up despite both adults trying to stop him. He felt at his side, pushing aside the hospital gown and less than pleased with the bandages there.

"It's getting better," John assured him quietly. Sherlock plucked at the bandages to see underneath. He didn't like having stitches. Those were a lot of stitches. For the most part, though, the wound was gone. He was pretty sure he'd been shot.

"How long have I been here?" Sherlock questioned, glancing between his fathers worriedly. John grimaced a little. A long time, then.

"You've been asleep for two weeks, Sherlock." Greg murmured softly. "No one knew what was wrong with you." Mycroft immediately look put off. He knew exactly what was wrong with his brother. He'd had an information surge and broke his brain. The older Holmes was just glad his brother had managed to fix it. He had started to think that Sherlock would never wake up. The thought of his brother living the rest of his life on life support and in his own brain made him sick to his stomach.

"I uh- I had some cleaning," Sherlock began, but decided that it was useless to try to explain his workings.

"You're legs,"

"We're fine. Thankfully, his aim was off." What could have very easily been two years of recovering from a shattered patella, several extensive replacement surgeries, and most likely a lifelong limp turned out to be a relatively harmless break. There was some great damage, of course, but it wasn't any worse than John's shoulder.

"They had three surgeries each, sever muscle damage, and are looking at a recovery time of twelve to eighteen months." Mycroft informed promptly. Lying to him wasn't going to make him feel any better. Sherlock frowned.

"I'm sorry."

"It was not your fault. You were incredible and brave and I'm just glad you're okay." Lestrade leaned over him a little, awkwardly hugging the young child without agitating his wound. Sherlock gladly brought his arms around the man's neck.

"I'm really sorry, Mummy. I'm sorry I couldn't stop him."

"Shh. It's okay, Sherlock. You had no control over it. Everything's going to be okay now." Sherlock knew that wasn't true. Moriarty was still out there and so help him god if Sherlock ever managed a weapon he would not hesitate. "Come on. You've been a sleep for a while. Let's get some real food into you."

"Yeah," The little Holmes nodded gently. "I would like some food."

o-o-o-o-o

Despite insisting that he did not want to be in a hospital, Sherlock was forced to remain in bed in the too white room with nurses he didn't know and awful food. He especially hated them changing his bandages. Thankfully, John took over the duty after Sherlock bit one of the nurses. It wasn't his fault. She was being rough an being cooped up with little activity and even less ability to walk without doubling over made him feel more like a rabid dog than a little boy. The wound itself was healing up nicely with no visible permeate damages, the sniper was thankfully as good of a shot up close as he was from a distance, but his body wasn't allowing him to do as he wanted. Again. He was really getting tired of his body not listening to him.

His brother filled most of his time with trivia, which was a perfect way for both of them to make sure Sherlock had gotten everything neatly back in order. Of course, it meant blank looks from both adults, nut neither boy paid them any mind.

"The thermally dimorphic fungus that causes 'Rose Gardener's disease'."

" Sporothrix schenckii." Though Sherlock hadn't found it all that necessary to recover the useless little pieces of information, he'd found as much of it as he could. A lot of it had been pushed out of his mind to make room for the information he needed immediately. He didn't like that feeling. More importantly, he needed his deductive reasoning and Sherlock was more excited about that than answering useless question.

"What about the nurse?" Mycroft had made a habit of sitting at the end of Sherlock's bed to the point where the nurses rarely tried to move him away. He'd simply be back and more often than not, spit cleverly hidden insults at them. It was clear he was very protective of his little brother in this time and he really didn't care about making any of them cry, including the supposedly tough security guard. He shouldn't have been speaking ill of Sherlock.

"Well," Sherlock peeked around him to the little blonde man tending to a chart. "He just finished school. He's related to one of the surgeons, but no one knows it. He's also married, you can see the mark on his finger, but no one knows that, either. He's living with his mother-in-law, but not because he's short on money, because she's having an affair with her. And two of the other nurses, and the doctor down stairs and three patients. He used to be a smoker, but not anymore. He bites his nails when the cravings start and when they get really bad, he chews on his pen. A shameless flirt all together. I saw him flirting with Mr. Watson earlier." He finished off anxiously. It had been a while since John had a girlfriend, mostly due to the worry and paranoia, but to be honest, it was strange for Sherlock to see him with anyone besides Greg, even though he knew they weren't romantic.

"Mr. Watson is completely oblivious to anything that doesn't interest him." Mycroft assured him off handedly. "And his last girlfriend was very unhappy with the time he was putting in with his not children." He wouldn't show it, but Mycroft was just as protective of his little family as Sherlock was. He was also just as upset about the attack. Revenge didn't even begin to describe what he had in mind for what they had done to his family.

"I have Chinese." John limped back into the little room pleasantly. Lestrade was having a considerably harder time moving about on his crutch, rendering him more or less useless as he helped carrying in their first decent meal in days.

"And good news. They say we're all in good enough health to be discharged by the weekend." Though it probably helped that John was a doctor and would probably badger them excessively once at home.

"Where are we staying?" Since it was clear they weren't safe in Lestrade's home, now.

"We'll be staying with Watson until we sort everything out." Greg assured the boys. He dropped himself into one of the chairs, resting his sore everything.

"You mean until we catch him?" Sherlock murmured.

"He won't be caught." Mycroft scoffed. He didn't want Moriarty to be caught, anyways. No one in this room did. Then again, two highly intelligent Holmes with a knack for seeing little details, a detective inspector, and an army surgeon would easily be able to convince everyone it was an 'accidental' death.

"No. He won't." Lestrade agreed, all too aware of the brother's insinuations. He patted Sherlock's hand softly. "But that wasn't what I meant."


	8. Chapter 8

Note: Last chapter then an Epilogue.

The injuries were getting the best of all of them. With a little help, they'd managed to get their things into the flat on Baker Street. Hopefully it would be one of the last times they had to move their things. Sally helped, though mostly just to make sure they weren't alone if they were attacked again. Molly was more than enthused to help, though her help was mostly tending to Sherlock, and occasionally Mycroft. Sherlock was both annoyed and thankful for it. His side would cause his back to crumple up for no reason at random times and it was difficult for him to move around for very long without doubling over. It didn't help that he paid no attention to his wound, already having popped the stitches twice. John threatened to take him back to the hospital if he did it again.

Anderson tagged along, Sherlock had the sneaking suspicion it was because of Sally, but he preferred not to speak with the man after their last troubles. It was not his fault Anderson stepped in his path when Sherlock was so clearly excited to leave. There were a few others, some people John worked with, some workers from the station, and Mrs. Hudson made tea and cake. Despite both of his father's in cast, they managed to get settled into John's flat in one day.

With only two rooms, accommodations were limited and the stairs only made everything more difficult. In the end, Mycroft made a bed all on his own. With every pillow, cushion, and blanket he could find, he made a bed right in the middle of the little living room. With some smart tying and weighing, it was slightly more comfortable than trying to squeeze everyone into two beds. With a bit of testing, to make sure it would stand up to all of their weight, he deemed it ready.

"What have you been up to?" Greg leaned against the kitchen door. Since Mycroft was the only one that came out uninjured, he'd taken it upon himself to help his family as much as possible, including helping Mrs. Hudson cook and tending to his brother but there was little else he could do that he hadn't done before. John and Sherlock were currently out. Sherlock had popped his stitches again while, after both of his fathers told him not to, trying to reach books clearly out of his reach and sure enough, John dragged him down to the clinic to get him fixed up.

Though Lestrade was suppose to be on leave, he spent his days on the phone working. Apparently he was more important to the station than he realized and they habitually called when things got a little too out of hand. Mycroft knew they didn't need to call him, but at least Greg didn't feel useless. On the other hand, he was supposed to be resting. Mycroft was tempted to hide his phone.

"Well, it's hard for any of you to get upstairs with you hurt, and the bed is too small for all of us," The older Holmes didn't want to sleep upstairs all on his own, even though he wouldn't admit to it. "So I made a bed." He motioned to the taunt sheet taking over the entire floor of the living room.

"You don't have to keep doing this, Mycroft." Greg said softly, motioning the boy towards him. He gently hugged him around the shoulder. "I know you keep trying to blame yourself for this, and Sherlock, too. But it wasn't your fault and it wasn't Sherlock's fault."

"But I should have known someone was watching-"

"No. Not your fault."

"But-"

"Mycroft." Lestrade said firmly. The little boy grimaced a little, but made no further attempt to argue with the man. Instead, he led his father to the little bed he'd made. Greg was obviously reluctant, seeing as though it didn't look like it could support a pillow let alone him, but Mycroft nudged him just shy of knocking him off of his feet. It supported him easily. He really should have known better.

"This is very nice, Mycroft." Lestrade sighed happily, laying on his back. The older Holmes laid beside him, mimicking his motion of resting his palms on his stomach. They really did look like father and son. It was nice.

"Sherlock, if you pick at it one more time, I'm putting a cone on you." John's voice echoed up the stairs and Lestrade chuckled. He approved of a cone.

"How'd it go?"

"Well, it's not infected, but he's managed to make it worse." The wounded man limped up the stairs after little Sherlock. "I think we're going to have to move everything to his level." He scoffed. Both males peeked over the couch curiously.

"What are you doing?"

"Mycroft made us a bed so we won't have to limp up and down the stairs." Mycroft smiled at the older man. Sherlock happily climbed up beside his brother, careful of his (once again) new stitches and John lay beside him. It held up perfectly and once again, Greg knew that Mycroft would easily dominate whatever occupation he wanted to. Of course, he knew the young male wanted to be in politics, but it was unclear of what exactly he wanted to do.

"This is very nice. Thank you." John complimented happily.

So, the strange little family spent the next several long weeks healing. Mycroft did most of the running around, helping Mrs. Hudson up and down the stairs, fetching clothes for Lestrade from the upper rooms, and occasionally darting outside to fetch the paper. Sherlock was the first back into perfect health and immediately went about his usual activity, starting with violin. Things were easier with both brothers up and about. Between the two of them, they could cook without making John and Greg stand for long periods and reluctantly cleaned.

Though they tended to life casually, not once did they let their guard down. It wasn't unusual for at least one of them, Sherlock more often than not, to stay awake the entire night with anxious suspicions of having his family taken away again. The fact that Moriarty hadn't contacted him in over two months was more nerve wracking than anything else. What was he planning, now? So he knew it was only a matter of time before their life was turned upside down again.

Sherlock hated it. Just when things were starting to settle down, he just had to go and yank it out from under his feet. It was time for a devious plan. Mycroft usually disapproved of his 'planning' but he was also the one that believed in no absolutes. He must have been thinking too loudly, because there was a knock at the door. Everyone knew how on edge Lestrade had been lately and no one came around without letting them know ahead of time. Moriarty might as well have told them he was here. Sherlock was surprised he hadn't.

John, in what Sherlock was sure was record time, had his pistol out and loaded without any hesitation, not that Lestrade was really going to do anything about it. He wasn't the only one prepared for this day, either. Mycroft, having already occupied the little kitchen upstairs while making tea, wasted no time retrieving the knife on the counter that just so happened to be the biggest one they owned and just so happened to be waiting for him. Lestrade armed himself with a crossbow, which he had confiscated from Sherlock. He still had no idea where Sherlock had gotten it from, however, and wasn't interested in finding out. That left Sherlock wielding Mrs. Adler's crop. They weren't going anywhere without a fight.

"Greg, Greg," Mrs. Hudson said worriedly. "That man's here. The man you told me about." There was a fifty fifty chance she was completely wrong, since they didn't have a decent photo of Moriarty, but that was enough. "What should I do?"

"Just let him in, Mrs. Hudson." Lestrade assured her calmly. "Make some tea for our guest, yeah?" She nodded hesitantly. The flowers were through the door before Moriarty was. He smiled pleasantly, as if he hadn't severely wounded all of them in some way.

"Ooh. So antsy, aren't we? You can settle down, I've only come to apologize for my irresponsible right hand."

"But not for shooting us." Lestrade demanded.

"Course not. That was fun." He casually stalked across the room. Sherlock backed away instantly. He was unarmed, sure, but his mind immediately told him that it hurt to be in proximity to the man. Jim set the extravagant bouquet on the little coffee table and made himself comfortable on the couch. "I really am sorry about that, Sherlock. Seb isn't the brightest of the bunch."

"Where is he?"

"Oh, you know, around. Watching to make sure you don't actually pull the trigger, which you won't, but I don't need things going wrong again." He crossed one leg over the other in an effeminate way and browsed over the living room with displeasure. It was homey and obviously not to his taste. All the better.

"He says we won't shoot him, Greg."

"Ever seen a man with an arrow in his knee, John?"

"It's more painful than it sounds." John assured their unwelcomed guest. Jim only laughed. Sherlock scurried into the kitchen with his brother where Mycroft was already slowly closing up the blinds.

"Come now, boys. Sherlock is healthy and you're not. This isn't going to turn out well for you." Jim purred. The wounded men exchanged glances. He was right and obviously had the upper hand, but that didn't change their decision. "Look, I'm willing to have a completely civil conversation about this."

"There's no conversation to be had. If you try to take him, we will shoot you." It was as simple as that. Mrs. Hudson quietly returned with a tray and a single cup. As if he didn't have a care in the world, Jim quietly took it. He breathed in the scent.

"It smells lovely. Almonds, yes?"

"Cyanide." Mrs. Hudson responded blandly.

"Oh, even the landlord is in on it. How sweet. I'm going to keep coming back and whether you give him to me willingly or not, I will get what I want." The short man assured them cockily. Silence and tension curled through the room. Sherlock glanced between the window and their guest unhappily. The window, he knew, was bullet resistant. It had something to do with the now deceased Mr. Hudson, but Sherlock didn't bother with that. He had no idea if the window could stop a sniper, but he didn't want to test it today.

"That was quite a show you put on, Sherlock. Magnificent." The tiny man purred. Mycroft pointedly stepped in front of his little brother to protect him.

"Get out." Lestrade demanded. He wasn't going to let Sherlock get hurt, not again. He'd promised the boys they would be okay and he intended on keeping that promise. Whether it was a mad man or a train, Lestrade and his blooming fatherly instinct was quickly becoming stronger. Sherlock was not his real son and never would be, but the blood Moriarty spilled was very real and Lestrade could never forgive him.

He spilled their blood, it was only fair to return the favor.

"But not perfect." Jim ignored him.

"I said, get out." The DI instructed a little louder. Perhaps a man in a cast wasn't the most threatening thing in the world, but Lestrade was a lion and this was his den and the threats were only starting.

"I don't believe anyone asked your opinion."

"I will give my bloody opinion when I damn well please to." The attention was on the older man now. It was too bad that was an awful thing. It was happening again. This was what Sherlock was worried about; the trauma. Trouble was brewing and his family was in danger and there was nothing he could do about it. It was worse this time, though. Far worse. Sherlock's mind drew on blank. He was afraid to think. He knew it was irrational, but his body didn't believe him. What had thinking got him last time? A bullet in his side and comatose.

"This has gone too far, Moriarty."

"Obviously not far enough. Perhaps I should have made you smile instead." Jim drew a finger over his smooth, pale cheek from the corner of his mouth up to his cheek bone. "You're growing such a mouth."

"Not even half an hour with you and you already got him shot." It wasn't like Lestrade hadn't thought about it, too. If Moriarty was going to go to such lengths, then maybe it was safer for them all to let Sherlock go along with him. Of course, he'd lashed himself for even considering it, but there was something to the idea. This man did not want to hurt Sherlock, but he would happily hurt Mycroft. It was a choice between having one of them dead or one of them criminal. However, Lestrade wasn't fond of either of those answers. They were both going to live long, happy lives that they had control of even if it meant he had to do things he'd never even dreamed of.

Fortunately, taking the life of a mad man wasn't beyond Lestrade and if it meant keeping his family safe, then he wasn't holding anything back.

"Oh. Sebby will get use to him soon enough. I'm sure little Sherlock will love getting his hands dirty with him." Jim scoffed a little. "Of course, masterminds don't get down and dirty, but having the knowledge is quite useful." No one else looked amused. The very thought of what Moriarty wanted with Sherlock made Lestrade sick. He was just a boy. He wasn't sure if it was possible for someone to be worse than Moriarty, but if it was, it was what he would make Sherlock into.

"And the deducting. He does that so well on his own already. Just imagine what he could do with a little push." Surely some sort of violence would be ensured in doing so. "He'd never be bored. He'd never be left behind. He'd be with someone who can keep up with him for once." Jim's eyes laughed at the two adults. "You can't fix him. You can only contain him. Is that what you want? Do you want to spend your entire life in a box? Always on medication but never getting any better?"

Sherlock backed away a little more, out of the sight of their guest. His family wouldn't do that to him. There wasn't anything wrong with him. He was a little different, sure, but they wouldn't put him away. Not like those people. Lestrade exchanged looks with John. Perhaps, as Sherlock got older, it would go away. Or perhaps it wouldn't. There was really no telling, but they had to plan for the worse. If he was right, which it seemed as through Moriarty was often right, then Sherlock would have to go into a mental institution. There were any number of things that came along with his sickness.

How long until they reared their ugly head? How long until Sherlock began to kill things? Then would come the people? They would never know how bad it would get, not after he developed the ability to blend in with the world. He would just sit and wait and seethe until he lashed out at everyone and everything. Lestrade had seen it before. Sherlock was different, though. He would get away with it. He would do it for no reason, too, and worse. It could happen with or without Moriarty's help. Allowing Sherlock to go with him would doom his future but allowing this to continue would doom them all, especially Mycroft.

Perhaps Lestrade should have thought it through more, but he needed more time for that and the last thing he had right now was time. Sherlock would never forgive him, but the DI was sure everything would be fine. If he wasn't confident enough in his choice, John offered a small nod. Mycroft watched in horror as they lowered their weapons. They were just going to give Sherlock away? Jim's signature smirk curled over his lips.

"Conditions." John murmured even as he couldn't bear to look at the Holmes in the eye. He didn't have to look to know that they were watching with utter hurt and disbelief. Even Sherlock hadn't thought they'd actually do it. He'd thought, at once, that perhaps he would have to go, just to keep his family safe, but he didn't think they'd actually go through with it.

"We have to think about both of you. At this rate, Mycroft is going to be in danger." Lestraded explained as best he could. His expression turned cold and hard as he adverted his hazel eyes back to Moriarty."If you hurt either of them, I will hunt you out myself and make you wish I was as kind hearted as you."

"Is that a condition?" Everything was a game to him. Lestrade was glad it was coming to an end. He couldn't take any pride in knowing they would both be safe. Not yet, anyways.

"That's a promise." John assured him in a voice that only a man in the military could form.

"Conditions. You're not allowed anywhere near Mycroft."

"It's a small world, Johnny boy." Jim insisted.

"Even on accident." Lestrade snapped.

"You will not put Sherlock in direct danger. And," The army man lightened again, as if to rethink everything. It could be seen in the way he eyed the barrel of his gun.

"And treat him well." The inspector finished with a small glance away. He didn't allow it to waver long, though, turning to view the appalled children.

"Go, Sherlock. You have to go." Guilt threaded Lestrade's voice, but even his apologetic look didn't make Sherlock feel any better. This wasn't happening. He had to be dreaming. He hated dreaming. John had to physically hold back the older Holmes before Sherlock could go anywhere, which was wasn't too intent on doing on his own. This was wrong! Things were not suppose to go this way. He needed an escape route.

Blank.

Jim placed a hand on his shoulder and Sherlock couldn't think of any way to get out of the mess his fathers put him in. He was just going to walk out without any fight or words or anything and he did. John released Mycroft once the door was closed and for the first time, Mycroft responded with violence. Cold, calculated violence. He struck John's wounded leg hard, making the man cry out with an agonized cry and Lestrade quickly grabbed him again.

"Hey! Stop it. Calm down, Mycroft." His father wrapped soothing arms around him as if to comfort him, though Mycroft was thinking more of it as a chance to strike his face.

"Everything's going to be fine. Settle down." And the six simple words Lestrade uttered to him gently soothed Mycroft's every worry.

o-o-o-o

Sherlock couldn't even take in the sights in the car. He was too bewildered. Everything was gone. His real family. His adoptive family. His things. His life. Gone. He had no idea what was going to happen next. He was aware of the man talking to him, but didn't hear a word he said. This had to be the worse thing he'd experienced in his life. He felt hurt and he didn't like it. It wasn't a physical pain, but rather a steady ache in his chest.

His family had just given him away. Sherlock grasped at his chest softly. For a moment, he was sure there were tears in his eyes, but there weren't. No, it must have been in his mind. He'd never cried before. At least, not since he was a baby and he wouldn't start. Alright, fine. If they'd given up on him, then fine. Family was only a pain, after all. He felt a hand on his head and turned unemotioned eyes up to his new, what? Master? He wouldn't call this man a father.

"Such a smart man, unlike that Adler. She wasn't supposed to like you." Jim smirked, trailing his hand over Sherlock's face and grasping his chin tightly. He jerked the child's face up swiftly, making those grey eyes look into his own. Sherlock didn't even flinch. There was nothing this man could do to him that would be any worse than what Lestrade had.

"You'll be incredible."

Sherlock didn't speak a word. The car ride was filled with mostly Moriarty speaking to him, but that was it. He must like hearing his own voice. Sherlock was well aware where they stopped. It was an expensive part of town and sure enough, Moriarty's flat was at the very top. He was a bit of a show off. The taller man he knew as Sebastian joined them in the elevator. Sherlock gave him an eyeful a silent rage, but quickly decided the man was a waste of his time. He was a pet and the bruises and cuts on his face assured him that he'd been put in his place for what he did.

"I'll show you to your room." It wasn't surprising that things had been set in motion long before this. Sherlock followed the man without argument. Not much good it would do him now. Trying to escape now would be Sisyphean.

"My room," Moriarty tapped on the solid door as he traveled by it. "And Sebby's, sometimes." He only opened the door at the end of the hall and instantly, Sherlock's sight flooded red. The room was obviously painted to deal out long term physiological control. The deep, wine red color would get him use to the sight of blood, even if Sherlock had never had any qualms with it before, and the crisp white bubbles were the walls of his new life. The furniture was expensive and plush looking, but there was no comfort in it. It wasn't homey, just a place to lay his head. The ache throbbed through his chest again. That was starting to get a little painful.

"I put it together just for you." The man purred pleasantly. Sherlock offered him the mildest of looks. Was he supposed to thank him? A moment of silence took up his response and unsurprisingly, he was struck in the face.

"I am speaking to you." Jim yelled loudly. Sherlock was indifferent and continued to be so long after the man stopped hitting him. He expected this to be a regular occurrence. Moriarty was so interchangeable, it was impossible to tell when he would do what, but Sherlock was sure a lot of it would be violence. There was no reason he would keep to his promise, not that he had ever verbally agreed to the conditions.

"Fix it." The ringing in his ears made it nearly unfeasible to hear and one eye was already swelling shut. Sebastian tended to him. He placed him gently on the edge of his new bed and iced the new bruises.

"Are you okay?" Said the man that blew a hole in his side. Sherlock stared blankly at him. "You could respond." He could, but he wouldn't and he didn't. If he didn't give Moriarty any reason to keep him around, perhaps he'd let him go. Or, more likely, end it quickly. Seb wasn't exactly light handed with the treatment but he was military. Ex military, obviously, but that only made him more of a threat.

"Sorry, about before." Sure he was. "Don't do that again." So it was true, even psychopaths could be loved. That was a good thing for him. Maybe someday he'll have his own little pet to trudge on his heels and take a hit, or more. Sebastian lifted up the edge of his shirt and Sherlock instantly moved away.

"Calm down." He growled, as if he had really done nothing to harm him before. Sherlock stilled himself, though, watching the man suspiciously through his good eye. Sebastian examined the scar left behind from their last brush.

"Never shot a kid before." How comforting that he was the first. Sherlock debated doing something awful to the man. Preferably stabbing him in the eye with something sharp. "Glad I didn't hit anything important." To save his own life, most likely. Jim would have killed him if he'd done anything permanently damaging. This man smelled of cigarettes and gunpowder. Sherlock shifted away from him pointedly and the hint was taken.

"I'll get you some water. Are you hungry?"

o-o-o-o

His new life was up to a rocky start. Moriarty didn't hit him anymore, though. Fortunately, he was smart enough to realize that it didn't help. He just hit Sebastian instead. The older man took it all in stride, though, not even daring to strike back. Sometimes one or both of them would leave, locking Sherlock in the house alone, and he would destroy everything he could get his hands on. He was making it very clear he did not want to be here. Sebastian would be forced to clean and Jim would laugh.

The pain in his chest was getting worse, too. Sherlock was getting the sneaking suspicion that it wasn't his hurt feelings. Over all, though, it was interesting. Jim explained all of his planning and why and his general reasoning and Sherlock was more or less forced to listen. It wasn't exactly fair that he had insatiable curiosity.

"He hasn't eaten in days." Sebastian complained. Sherlock aimlessly picked through the expensive order in as if he were planning on eating if he found something he liked. He wouldn't. This was disgusting. It was merely chicken parmesan, but the thought of eating alone made him want to vomit.

"And he hasn't spoken since you brought him here."

"So?" Jim demanded. If it weren't for the fact he'd been consensually kidnapped, he would have mistaken this for an actual family. A horribly ill, mentally disturbed, violent family, but a family none the less. Jim was the hard handed father striving to make his son the best he could be (even if it was against his will) and Sebastian was the 'I don't even care anymore' mother who tidied up after their mess. Sherlock hoped they never had children. This was awful.

"Things tend to die if you don't feed them, Jim."

"I think that's a myth." Highly intelligent or not, the mastermind criminal lacked basic understanding of a lot of things. It seemed he worked the same way Sherlock did. He disposed of useless information but on a much higher scale, but it made room for much more useful things. He knew everything about the current building his new target was in down to how fast the elevator doors closed and the angle of the cameras, while simultaneously try to hammer in a screw with the heel of one of his shoes. Once he finished a job, he forgot. Sherlock didn't, though and one day he would use all of this information against this man.

"If you don't even know how to take care of a child, why did you go to such lengths to bring him here? There has to be better ways."

"This is why I don't pay you to think, Sebby. Just force feed it or something." The other insisted. Seb turned chocolate eyes on the young boy and Sherlock dared him with a glare.

"I do happen to like my fingers." The army man insisted. Jim let out an irritated sigh and stalked around the table. Grey eyes watched him suspiciously. Not that it helped one way or another. Jim forcibly parted his lips and teeth, despite Sherlock lashing around like a mouse by the tail. Without a mild fight, food was forced into his mouth and a hand clamped over his lips. Then began the waiting game.

o-o-o-o

Mycroft had mixed feelings about this. It had been days and they had no idea what Moriarty was doing to his brother. He also wasn't sure how pleased he was with them putting a tracker in him when he was so vulnerable. It wasn't a well practiced procedure and for all they knew, it was now infected and Moriarty was having him cut open. They knew exactly where he was, but absolutely nothing about the building. It took days of paperwork and maneuvering around the system to even explain the little Holmes' sudden disappearance.

They were right, though. This was the only way. Moriarty was a man that danced around the system. They could arrested him and pin all kinds of crimes on him, but he slick himself up and escape without so much as a scratch and he would keep coming back until he got what he wanted. Lestrade wasn't a DI at the moment. He was a father willing to do anything to keep his children safe.

"Moran is leaving." Mycroft informed. He would have to explain later why he knew how to hack into London's camera system. It was amazing what people would say in public when they thought no one was listening and as a child that everyone over looked, Mycroft heard it all. Lestrade sighed a breath full of stress, and nodded gently to the older Holmes.

"Let's go get your brother." There wasn't a lot of security. In the end, it would only bring up questions, after all. A perfectly normal building and no one else knew any better. It was probably even owned by Moriarty, meaning that someone would knew they were here. However, no one came to stop them. The door was unlocked. Obviously Moriarty was expecting them.

o-o-o-o-o

"Ooh," Jim purred from his desk. Sherlock ignored him, sitting in what he had claimed as his corner of the room. The man would just made him sit there while he might as well have been talking to himself. Not that Sherlock attempted to get away. He knew how to get out. It was simple enough, but where would he go when he was out? He was small and alone and Sherlock wasn't sure he'd get by without his brother. It was bothersome to be here, but it could be worse.

"Looks like someone's been busy with my cameras. I wonder who on earth that could be." He spoke as if wanting an answer, but Sherlock never offered any. Moriarty had tones of enemies. Not to mention the government. It could be any, or all, of them. The laugh made him worry, though.

"It's coming from Baker Street. Tsk, tsk. I thought we were through with this game." Sherlock perked up immediately. He dared to look over the man's shoulder. A spike ignited his brain. Lestrade wasn't a man that would give up so easily, and neither was John. They wouldn't just let him go like that. They were his family.

"Seb. Go take care of our little bug problem." The man left without argument. If his family was trying to get him back, then it was up to Sherlock to weaken the arms. He did not need to speak to learn. Leaving Sherlock to his own devices for hours on end was typically a bad thing. The first time, he had no idea what he was doing. He was plucking at the strings he saw with the only real goal being distraction. He had succeeded. This time, it was revenge. This time it was for shooting his fathers, for hitting him, for breaking Mycroft's wrist, for killing Irene Adler, and most of all, trying to push him into a mold.

"Do you push away everyone?" The quiet utter attracted Jim's attention at once.

"Good. I thought I might have actually broken you."

o-o-o-o

A single shot echoed through the house and Lestrade's heart jumped. He hesitated at the door and John mimicked his worried. Cautiously, he pushed open the door, partially expecting some kind of trap. There was none. A quick peek around the living room assured them it was empty.

"Sherlock?" John called worriedly. He took gentle, worry-some steps about the flat. It was likely Moriarty had his entire flat rigged and none of them wanted that. The first room was empty, the second was the bathroom, and the third was most likely Sherlock's. By the looks of it, he wasn't happy.

"Sherlock." The fourth room was the winner. Blood spattered the wall and pooled on the floor. Sherlock glanced up from Moriarty's limp form. Lestrade grabbed him up at once, holding him tightly to his chest. Sherlock grasped tight handfuls of his shirt. Immediately, he felt better. His stomach growled mildly to show his hungry, but it was ignored for the time being.

Quietly, Sherlock sobbed.

"Shh," Greg murmured softly. "It's okay. It's okay. Mummy has you. It's all over, now, Sherlock. There's nothing he can do to hurt you. You're such a brave little boy, I'm so proud of you." John placed a tender hand on his back.

"Let's go home."


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

Mummy Lestrade

November 14th

One Year Later

Lestrade, too comfortable to leave, sold his house and bought the basement flat on Baker Street. Sherlock claimed the room at the top of the stairs while Mycroft took the spare room in 221c. For the first couple weeks after their final showdown, nightmares ensured. Many nights were spent huddled in the same bed as Lestrade or in front of the fireplace with John and hot chocolate.

Moriarty never bothered them again, never kidnapped anyone again, and never hurt anyone again. Moran escaped, but was found months later face down in a gutter. He'd drank himself to death of all things. Life was good, for once. Sherlock had a home and a family and everything was perfect. Mostly.

"Sherlock!" He dropped the bowl at once, startled by his own name. Mycroft and Lestrade weren't supposed to be home yet!

"What happened?" The younger Holmes glanced down to where John lay unconscious on the floor, mostly covered in flour.

"We were making Mycroft a birthday cake," Baking was hard! "He's okay. I checked. He just hit his head on the cabinet." Lestrade helped up the other man, checking for himself. Thankfully, John blinked his eyes open, thoroughly confused, but awake. He gripped at Greg's shoulder to keep himself up. Spotting Mycroft, he smiled with a loopy expression.

"Happy birthday." He murmured.

"Happy birthday!" Sherlock mimicked, holding up the 'cake'. Technically it was a cake. It just didn't look like a cake. He'd tried to warn John this was a bad idea. An army doctor and an eight year old trying to make a cake. Mycroft eyed the lump.

"Thank you. I don't have to eat that, do I?"

"I wouldn't suggest it."

June 7th

Another Year Later

Sherlock wouldn't admit to it, but it was a little disconcerting to see John getting married. She was sweet and lovely and put up with his strange little family (dare he say, she even liked them), but it just seemed weird. Not once had he thought that there would be another parent in his life. He'd always assumed it would just be the four of them, Mummy, and Father, and Mycroft. Not to say he didn't like her and he wouldn't do anything to ruin their happiness, of course. Mycroft seemed indifferent, but Lestrade shared Sherlock's feelings.

The ceremony was lovely and the 'I dos' were said, and John left with his new wife to enjoy his honeymoon. Sherlock couldn't get out of his suit fast enough. An entire week without John would be strange, but they could manage.

"Are you okay with this, Mummy?" Mycroft questioned as he boiled water for a bit of tea before bed. Lestrade shrugged a little.

"Why wouldn't I be? I'm happy for him." He smiled sincerely. Sherlock joined him on the couch, struggling to get out of his tie. His father helped him.

"It just seemed like you had more feelings for him." The younger Holmes insisted. Lestrade chuckled tiredly.

"It's not like that, boys. We take care of you together, but that's it." It was only natural they thought of them as a couple. Lestrade had his fair share of girlfriends, sure, but they never got very serious. To be honest, he'd been married enough in this life time. He shared a strange relationship with the little army doctor, but it wasn't romantic.

"So you two didn't shag that one night." The older boy smirked at him.

"First of all, you're not allowed to know that word yet. Second of all, neither of you are allowed to have any amount of alcohol ever. It makes you make bad decisions. Understood?" At least he would never have to have 'that' talk with them. They both just grinned at him.

February 23rd

Two Years Later

Exactly nine months after John's wedding, a little Watson popped out of Mary. John Junior, they called him, and Sherlock instantly took a liking to him. Fortunately, he was very good with the child, even if he insisted on teaching the child to the best of his ability which was far beyond the Watson. Mary died five months later from natural causes, but John was doing a particularly good job of not being too affected by it. This brought up a lot of questions, of course. John dutifully admitted that they'd wed because she was pregnant and the loss was painful, but not loss love.

His little family helped him through it, as they always did, and they made it to the other side with one more family member. The little Watson was brave, like his father, but at the same time, a very quiet child.

"Look! Look! I taught him another word!" Sherlock held up the child to his two parents and John Junior bubbled at the mouth a little. He made little noises and slobbered on his hands but wasn't any closer to speaking than before.

"See?"

"That wasn't a word." Greg was pleased with his ability to work with the baby. They couldn't make Sherlock better, though the entire family would argue there wasn't really anything wrong with him, but they did everything they could to keep him from getting worse. It wasn't something they had to work hard to do. All he needed was plenty of love and affection and that was never a lack of that.

"Alright, fine, a sound. It's a start."

"I wish you'd stop treating him like a dog. He'd not going to learn anything, you know that." John sighed softly, but even he found it a little amusing.

"It's an experiment."

"Oh Christ."

October 2nd

Three Years Later

"Are you sure you want to go to school now?" Lestrade questioned worriedly as he watched the boy's dress. Though Sherlock wouldn't normally be old enough to attend upper school, he'd tested well enough (or rather poor enough) to attend the same grade as Mycroft. They'd both under tested. It had nothing to do with learning, of course. Mycroft had never planned on keeping Sherlock out of school forever. He had to learn to get along with people and to be honest, they both needed a little more social interaction. Mycroft was getting a little antsy with talking to the same people every day. Even helping Mrs. Hudson in her shop wasn't helping. This was best for both of them.

"It's for the best." Mycroft nodded firmly as he straightened out his tie. Sherlock agreed.

"It'll be fine, Mummy." The younger male insisted. "I've always wondered what public school was like."

"The minute you want to come home, just give me a call." Both Holmes shot him a pointed look. They'd stay the whole day now, regardless. Lestrade wouldn't admit that, that had been his plan.

"Come on, then. Junior's all ready." John poked his head in a little, his little son clinging to his leg as he was so fond of doing. Sherlock tucked the edges of his favorite scarf around his neck and into the collar of his Belstaff 'Millford style' coat. His fathers had gotten it for his birthday last year and he hadn't touched any of his other coats since. As they hurried out the door, Lestrade yelped at them.

"Hey! Be good! That means not tormenting or 'noticing' anything about your fellow students." Sherlock waved him off half heartedly.

"Watch your brother."

"Always." Mycroft scoffed. John stopped in the door way to pick his son's backpack up.

"Alright. The clinic is expecting me to stay late." He explained to Lestrade. "Dinner?"

"Mrs. Hudson said she was making something special for their 'special' day."

"Great. Try not to get bored without us."

"Alone in the house for eight hours? How will I ever manage?" Without thinking, Greg leaned over to pluck a kiss off his none romantic partner's cheek. Apparently, he'd startled himself with the action and reeled back instantly.

"Oh god. I didn't-" He began but John only chuckled calmly.

"Smooth, Mum." Sherlock teased.

"Go to school, you brat!"

School was slightly more difficult than Sherlock had originally thought it would be. On the other hand, it was way better than Mycroft had thought it would be.

Mycroft, being well dressed, handsome, intelligent, and mild mannered, instantly won his way into the heart of most of the school. He took charge and people naturally followed. He could converse with his peers without showing off his massive intellect, was confident in his decisions and ability and it rubbed off on people. By lunch, he'd already had his own group of friends and the teachers all adored him.

Sherlock, being well dressed, handsome, intelligent, and a sociopath, managed to make enemies with most of the school. At first, he had made friends. He'd smiled and pretended to be just like them, then realized what he was doing was stupid, that these people were stupid, and it was awful. When he started being himself, people started backing away. It wasn't surprising that he wasn't interested. They were boring and dull. By lunch, he'd discovered that he was not a social person and the teachers didn't like him.

Mycroft attempted to join him for lunch, but it meant his posy followed and Sherlock swiftly motioned him away. It didn't work, of course, and his brother joined him anyways, making idle conversation as his new friends wearily watched the younger Holmes.

"He's not going to bite you, you know."

"I make no promises."

"He's joking."

"Do you want to find out?"

Mycroft shot him an angry look and Sherlock made a small 'hrmp' noise. His brother should know that these people didn't interest him in the least. It was likely they didn't interest Mycroft, either, but he could pretend until they gave him a real reason to dislike them. Sherlock already had his reasons and by pointing them out, he'd made more enemies.

It wasn't until physical education did they meet a real bully, though. Sherlock was still so tiny, tall but thin and unfortunately, made him the target for physical violence. Which, he already knew, he didn't like. He was working on a theory that no one liked being hit in the face. It supposed to be a team building sport to get to know each other, but the little Holmes disapproved the minute the older, larger boy struck him in the face. Instantly, Sherlock flipped a shit, for lack of better words.

Fortunately, he could take a hit, which surprised the other boy when he turned back with pointedly vindictive look. Then out came words that he really should not have said. The bully crumpled before Mycroft knew what was going on. However, Sherlock wiped blood off his busted lip and the older male couldn't punish him for it. From then on, his peers were less enemies and more afraid. Sherlock didn't have to fight back and luckily for him, no one else heard what he said. They rarely did.

Sherlock brushed the incident off and assured the teacher he was fine, leaving the other students to coward from him and Mycroft to partner up with him.

"You should have let me know."

"I handled it."

"Try to handle it without mentally scaring him next time."

The small brush in didn't travel home, thankfully, and Sherlock wasn't scolded for it. In the end, though, they both decided to continue schooling. Social skills were needed if Mycroft wanted to make it to his life goal and watching people helped sharpen Sherlock's deduction skills.

January 6

Four Years Later

The Holmes took up fencing in school, practicing with one another often in the little flat of their home. Along with violin and the basics of hand to hand, Sherlock was a well rounded student. He had no idea what he was going to do, but considering he could do anything, he wasn't worried about it. Mycroft, on the other hand, already had a foot in the door in his destined career. John Junior was, well, not a Holmes. He was a perfectly normal kid with perfectly normal problems. No kidnapping, or mad men, or anything that his 'brothers' had in their childhood.

Today was perfect. Lestrade and John had gone out to buy him a birthday present and Mycroft had taken Junior to 'not buy him a birthday present' and Mrs. Hudson was baking in her little shop. Sherlock was all alone. He waited an appropriate amount of time after they had gone before jumping out of bed. He was getting very good at pretending to be asleep. He gave a small peek around to make sure no one was around before taking his little bag and locked himself in the bathroom. A small crack in the window should do it.

Public school had given him the advantage of getting to know of nasty little habits. And forming them. He knew Lestrade use to smoke. He could remember the man wearing nicotine patches when he was little, but he seemed broken of the habit now. Sherlock, on the other hand, was quiet pleased with it. He opened up the hidden compartment he'd sewed into his backpack and retrieved one of the little white cancer sticks. Hurriedly, he shrugged out of his pajamas and hovered about the room in his pants. The smell hung in his clothes and John was very good at being suspicious of him.

He lit up quickly, but casually enjoyed the length of tobacco. It was surprisingly easy to get them, along with anything else he wanted. Sherlock, of course, kept to things that he could hide easily from his military father and DI father. It was particularly hard due to the fact that completely irrelevant things would warrant a check and that Mycroft held it over his head.

Then he heard a noise from downstairs. Please be Mycroft, Please be Mycroft. The hushed voices proved that it wasn't. Sherlock rushed to finish the single stick, puffing the smoke directly out of the window.

"Is that smoke?"

"Shit, shit, shit, shit,"

"Sherlock?"

"Hold on!" He called back desperately.

"Sherlock!" The handle jiggled violently and the smell of smoke was very apparent. "Open this door!"

"How about some privacy, dad!" There was silence, which was not a good thing. Sure enough, the lock clicked open and the door swung open. Sherlock flicked the rest of his cigarette out the window, though this situation did not look good for him.

"Are you smoking?" Lestrade bellowed loudly.

"Don't you dare lie to us, Sherlock." John backed up instantly. Grey eyes darted between his parents. It wasn't that he couldn't lie, or even that he couldn't think of a great lie, it was just that they usually knew when he was lying. Which was impossible! He could even fool a real test, but they always knew somehow.

"Define 'smoking'."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!"

If there was one thing his parents were good at, it was calmly talking things out. It was obvious John was disappointed in him, and Lestrade had steadily got louder the more they spoke, but in the end, he got off relatively easily. Partially because Mycroft helped them find all of his hiding spots (mutiny!), but he was sure most of it was due to the fact it was his birthday.

So instead of some obscure punishment, he got cake and promised his parents he would at least wait until his lungs had fully developed before polluting them. Under normal circumstances, he would have insisted that he was basically done growing by now, but instead took his card and fled. He'd discuss later at what age, exactly, he could smoke. He had the fleeting suspicion it was 'never'. Just like with the question about getting the tracker removed from his insides. It made things incredibly hard to sneak around with.

Birthdays were always nice in the Holmes-Lestrade-Watson house. He gladly accepted the little gifts, enjoyed the cake and enjoyed the time with his family.

Three Years Later

It was the year Mycroft left home for good. With his popularity in school, it hadn't been unlike him to have girlfriends on and off. None of them ever lasted very long and for good reason. He had the uncanny ability to make everyone feel inadequate when placed beside him which didn't bode well for average people. However, he'd finally gotten a position in the government and while earning his degrees and working in quiet, he moved into a flat of his own. It wasn't unusual not to hear from him for weeks. At first, John had fretted about it, but Mycroft always remembered to stop by and assure them all he was fine.

Sherlock pretended he didn't care. For years now, a steady discontent had formed between them. Whether it was Mycroft trying to force friends and dates on him or protecting him from needless dangers, Sherlock hated it. He did everything he could to squirm away from his brother and make his own. Things became especially stressed between the brothers after Lestrade had a mild heart attack during a little celebration party. Sherlock blamed Mycroft and Mycroft ignored him.

It was also the year that Lestrade seriously started considering him for help in the force. More often than not, Sherlock trailed after him to work and solved crimes twice as fast as they could on their own. He planned on opening his own detective business, just to make a little money on the side until he decided exactly what he wanted to do.

With school finished, Sherlock turned to studying more precise things. Often times things that no one else had thought about, or had a use for. Experimenting, of course. He just didn't see why people didn't think of these things? Obviously the man couldn't have been thirty minutes away from where the murder took place if his bruises hadn't formed until after they took him in for questioning.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock didn't look away from his little table, but he heard the firm steps hurrying up the hall. "How many times do I have to tell you not to experiment on your brother?" Grey eyes glanced over his shoulder to the orange faced child and his enraged father.

"It's not permanent, dad." He assured him. John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It doesn't matter if it's permanent, Sherlock."

"Then I don't see what the problem is."

"Is this even safe?"

"Of course. I wouldn't knowingly hurt him."

"Yeah. That's what I'm afraid of. Fix him and fix him now." The older man demanded.

"It'll go away on its own. You can relax." Sherlock insisted, motioning the little Watson towards him. He didn't even question it, which worried John more than anything else. He examined the eleven year old's head and the ends of his hair before pointing out a patch behind his ear.

"See. It's already going away." He assured him. John didn't speak for a moment, holding curled fingers over his mouth. He shook his head.

"No more testing on Junior."

"But-"

"No! You're going to make him sick one day."

Sherlock scoffed.

Thirteen Years Later

A nice family dinner for once in years. Mycroft wasn't around as often now that he was, by all accounts, the British government. John retired from his work after his son finished school and Lestrade followed soon after. The two of them took to relaxing in the comfort of their vacation flat Mycroft had been so kind as to purchase for them. Though they still insisted that their relationship was platonic, all the years together left them closer and closer. Sherlock moved into 221b Baker Street completely and eventually moved from detecting for the police to consulting with the police, with help from the little Watson, of course. Though he was attending school to be a doctor, it was nearly impossible not be dragged into Sherlock's troubles, especially considering they were sharing the flat.

"So, I saw you in the paper again." John smiled pleasantly over after dinner coffee.

"I would have solved it sooner if Dimmock would have just done as I told him." Sherlock complained rather loudly.

"He'd probably do as you asked if you were nicer to him." Greg scoffed.

"It's not that easy, Mum."

"You should know Sherlock can't hold a proper conversation with decent company." Mycroft eyed his brother from across the table.

"Perhaps you should leave the room, then." The younger brother shot back.

"Does every dinner we have, have to end like this?" The retired army doctor sighed. It held a certain amount of affection, though.

"I'm so sorry, dad." The older brother pleasantly apologized.

"Oh, there he goes again."

"What could I have possibly done this time?"

"You always have to be better than me, don't you Mycroft?"

"I was not trying to be better than you, Sherlock."

"I'm going to go make some more coffee. This is going to go on for a while." John Junior sighed patiently, pushing himself away from the table.

"Are those bruises on your wrist?" His father pointed out suddenly. He quickly pulled down the sleeve of his turtleneck.

"Oh, Sherlock,"

"For the love of- Stop letting Sherlock experiment on you."

"It seemed important."

"And you were always trying to make friends for me in school."

"How does that have to do with anything?"

"It's not like I couldn't make my own friends if I wanted them, but I didn't and you knew that. You were just rubbing them in my face."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Do I even want to know why he needed to know if you could get out of handcuffs."

"Dad! Gross! Just because you're shagging Mr. Lestrade doesn't mean I'm shagging Sherlock!"

"Is anything a secret in this family?"

"And you always held the fact you knew where all my hiding spots were over my head. I just wanted a smoke once in a while."

"You were going to kill yourself with those damn things, Sherlock."

"I think I had the right to make that decision myself."

"It's not exactly a secret when you spend all your time together and you have bloody hickies all over your neck."

"And you just assume I haven't found a girlfriend."

"Don't make me think about that. That's even worse than you and Mr. Lestrade. Now I'm going to be thinking of that all night. Thanks dad."

Lestrade sat back and watched his little family bicker. It was inevitable, really, but it was nice to have them all in the same room none the less. They were all grown up now and that was all he needed to be happy. There had been times when he thought they'd never live to see this day. Mycroft was successful and Sherlock wasn't in prison, what more could he ask for? If anything, things had turned out much better than he had ever hoped for.

"And don't think I don't know when you're keeping tabs on me."

"Oh, please, Sherlock. We all know you put it in Junior."

"You did what?"

"I didn't know anything about that."

"I'd debated putting it in a dog, just to see how long you'd follow it."

"Stop cutting open your brother!"

A dysfunction family was better than none. Perhaps there was something wrong about finding this whole conversation normal, but Lestrade did. Sure, he missed the days where they'd quietly cuddle on the couch and simply enjoy the fire, but he supposed all parents missed that.

"Sherlock," The room quieted after a few moments, though none of them were done with their argument.

"Yes, Mummy?"

"Why don't you play your violin? It's been a while since I heard you play." Greg murmured. Sherlock offered the smallest of smiles and nodded.

"John,"

"Get it yourself."

"Snippy, aren't we?"

"I just found out you put a tracker in me."

"I don't see how you didn't realize it sooner." Sherlock sniffed back to the younger man. He retrieved his case from the little living room. He always brought it with him when visiting family. He knew his fathers liked to hear him play, even if his talent was more recently found. He straightened out his back a little and began to play. The calming effect on all of them was immediate.

John gently grasped Lestrade's hand under the table, sighing contently. Greg smiled at him. Mycroft hmmed happily, hands rested ever so comfortably on the end of his favorite umbrella.

Everything was okay.

The End.

Author Notes: Whooo! I think this is the first thing I've finished in a long time. D: I was throwing up the idea of LestradexWatson through the whole thing (because this world needs more LestradexJohn), but I didn't want to focus too much on them which turned out to be an awful idea. Now I wish I would have done so. Meh. I also hadn't planned out the end very well. By making John his father, it left Sherlock strangely Watson-less and that just couldn't be. I couldn't find anything about John having a son, though, so my awesome creative name system magically created John Junior. Also, according to the books, Mary (John's 2nd wife) just kind of disappeared and he never said anything about her. So, yeah. This turned out longer than I had originally intended, but obviously not long enough to get everything I wanted into it. I'm always worried I'm going to go off and get distracted with minor details, like the murder case Moriarty had him solve. There were so many details for that, it wasn't even funny.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed. c: I loved writing this. Also, if anyone would like to beta for me, that would be fantastic. I have no idea how FF's beta works. . .


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